


Steady the Sword

by EdgeLaur



Series: Temper the Blade [2]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bodyguard Daud, Canon-Typical Violence, Corvo Attano/Jessamine Kaldwin - Past Relationship - Freeform, High Chaos Corvo Attano, Low Chaos Daud (Dishonored), Low Chaos Emily Kaldwin, M/M, Minor Character Death, Nonbinary Character, Other, Post-High Chaos Ending, Royal Spymaster Corvo, Setting - Morley, Setting - Tyvia, Slow Burn, Twin-Bladed Knife AU, Tyvian Prison
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 03:50:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 83,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13022640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdgeLaur/pseuds/EdgeLaur
Summary: “Temptation is like a knife, that may either cut the meat or the throat of a man; it may be his food or his poison, his exercise or his destruction.” -- John OwenAfter a high chaos run leaves Emily in distress over Dunwall, Corvo finds himself sent off to Tyvian prison living out a salt-mine sentence, which leads him to the Twin-Bladed Knife.Once he and the Knife finally get home, however, he starts to uncover a conspiracy that's been growing in his absence, one that sends him far off to Morley, and face to face with an old nemesis he thought dead and buried.





	1. A Sentence Of

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go, the beginning posting of my NanoWriMo project, of which I successfully completed! But I couldn't stop at 50,000 words, not at all. I have a whole series planned out, just you wait. Please enjoy this Canon Divergent AU in which a high chaos Corvo comes into possession of the Twin-Bladed Knife! HUGE AMOUNTS OF LOVE TO MY CHEERING SQUAD. They got my through my NanoWriMo and beyond, and kept me sane when all I wanted to do was post right away. You all know who you are; thanks for believing in this fic. ;w;
> 
> I'm also going to take this time to formally apologize to any fans of the book The Corroded Man. I haven't read the whole book yet, but I think I owe it to myself to read it, one day. Please know this Tyvian Prison and version of Zhukov is all my own, so sorry for any inconsistencies on that front.

Perhaps it was a side effect of enduring six months of torture in one of most deplorable prisons in all the Isles. Perhaps waking up to cold walls and unrelenting bars after another day's beating had steeled him, had prepared him for what was to come. Perhaps fate had a way of knowing his life would lead to this: to a land of cold isolation that stretched for kilometers in every direction. There is nothing to see or enjoy when looking out over the expansive white backdrop of Tyvia almost blinding in the sun that hung overhead for months at a time.

Yet it is here, in this frozen world that most men would see as their doom, that Corvo Attano is counting his blessings.

For starters, it isn't Coldridge, and that alone is enough to have him laughing with relief. This land may be _cold,_ far colder than anywhere else in the Empire of the Isles, but it wasn't the wet, damp, endless misery that he had woken up to every day inside that establishment. It wasn't hot brands onto sweating and shaking skin, trying to pry a confession out of him that didn't exist. It wasn't the sadistic smile of a man who enjoyed his job too much as he hummed his favorite tunes, all while ripping out Corvo's nails. It wasn't going to make him go temporarily mute from the pain, his vocal chords tearing from the constant screaming.

It isn't Coldridge. Thank the Void, _it is not Coldridge._ If Corvo could survive the most deplorable prison in Dunwall, he can survive this icy death trap known as Utyrka. He is sure of it.

\------

“That settles it, then. I sentence you to freedom, Corvo Attano.”

Emily's small chin remained propped and her gaze remained true, though Corvo did not miss the slight tremor to her lip, the pout she wore. Corvo did not break her gaze, just nodded in understanding. She followed his action, holding composure until everyone else left the court, leaving the two of them at the throne, together and alone. As the door finally closed behind Curnow, Emily lunged forward, sobbing into Corvo’s clothes, clutching his heavy coat. His heart throbbed painfully in his chest as he held her small body close, making no motion to pull the girl off.

“I don't like being Empress, Corvo,” she said through the sobs. He made a small noise, a cross between an exhale and a laugh. It had only been two months since Emily had been reinstated to the throne, the one left empty for nearly a year in the wake of her mother's death. It had been a dark time for the city of Dunwall and it was going to be a long time before everything was back to normal.

Corvo had not made the city's road to recovery any easier; after escaping Coldridge prison, he had shown no mercy to those who had wronged him, had wronged Emily, and had conspired to kill the previous Empress. Given a mask of Death upon his freedom, Corvo had embodied the symbol, cutting fear and awe into the plague-ridden city. He had left a cryptic trail of red, with those of guilty conscious fearing that the sting of the masked assassin's blade would reach their flesh next. He left no deserving body standing.

Nobody, except…

_Except._

“Why’d you have to kill all those people, Corvo,” she cried, voice muffled by the fabric she pulled to her face. He squeezed her and held on, until finally pulling her away. She looked up at him, eyes shining, all semblance of royal grace washed away in the tears of the ten year old girl who didn't yet understand the complications of the world. He knelt down on a knee, wiping her tear away with a thumb. She sniffed, grabbing his left hand, tracing the Mark branded there like a prayer.

“I did what I had to do to protect you. I couldn't let those people live. Not after everything they'd done.”

“Even those guards? Even those sick people? Or those people on the streets, who just wanted to…” she blinked, the tears gracing her lashes before running down her cheeks again, small rivers on a girl who had seen too much and knew too little on what it all meant.

“Emily…” he sighed as she looked away, squeezing his hand.

How could he explain to her the evils of men, of what those people had done with smiles on their faces and laughter on their lips? How could he tell her of the man who had hidden the bodies of the beggars he had used, or tell her of the woman who had drowned her children in the Wrenhaven, laughing about it the next day? It was not for her ears, not when she had grown up loving the people of this city, just as her mother had taught her.

It was not her burden to bear.

“Hey,” he started, having no defense, no regrets of trying to help clean the city of its guilt and corruption. Even now, the whispers either curse him or praise him, the masked phantom of Dunwall. “This is why I'm not mad with you, you know that, right? I think this is the right thing, too.”

“Did you think killing those people was the right thing to do, too?”

“Yes.”

She worried against her lower lip.

“I just…” her voice was so soft, so innocent. He hoped he would never see her lose that innocence, that wish to preserve life at all costs. “I didn't think I'd lose you too.”

Corvo had smiled then, gripping her shoulder, meeting her eye.

“Hey, you'll still hear from me. I won't disappear forever. I'll still be allowed to write.” When she didn't look convinced, he gave her tiny shoulder a small shake. “I'll tell you all about the bears and wolves I'll have to battle in the Tyvian wilderness.”

This caused a sparkle in her eye, a grin playing on her lips.

“You know, Anton said nobody’s ever escaped Tyvian prison. It's _impossible_.”

“Well,” he whispered. “You shouldn't listen to _everything_ Sokolov says. I'll serve my sentence, fair and square.” But even as he said this, he winked at her, the curtain of his hair barely hiding his smirk. She grinned broadly, and he pulled her in for a tight hug.

“I still love you, Corvo.”

“I know, my Emily. I still love you too.”

Curnow came in after that, still stiff in his new Royal Protector duties, to usher Emily out of the throne room as they came to collect Corvo and ready his ship to Tyvia. She had been stricken, but Corvo had nodded to her and her face hardened. She nodded back, eyes shining and she turned, head held high, fitting of an Empress.

And Corvo had let the city guard take him, giving no protest as they lead him away from the home he had known for the last 22 years.

\------

Utyrka is different from the rest of the prisons on all the Isles.

For one, there are no walls surrounding the complex or keeping prisoners sent here inside. Unlike Dunwall’s security, this prison is a vast, open expanse, where the prisoners mill about, fulfilling their day-to-day duties. There are buildings, to be sure; there are quarters for sleeping and bathing, watchtowers, a mess hall, and an underground expanse of tunnels that lead in and out of the salt mines. There is whale processing, there are warehouses for equipment and storage, and the North Tower, which sees over the entire compound.

Past the collection of buildings and tunnels to the labor-intensive salt mines of Tyvia, the wild frontier sits patiently and waits. Nothing but frozen white extends for kilometers in every direction; truly, the weather, location, and wilderness are walls enough to this camp. However, the open space is inviting and enticing to anyone who has 'had enough’; every year at least one or two prisoners try to break from the camp, sick of the salt mines and mad from the endless cold, the consuming darkness.

Those who break away are never stopped, are never chased; the guards know all too well what the wolves and the bears will do to those who flee. There are some that return, terrified, coats ripped wide open, hot blood seeping out, tears freezing to their face in the icy winds. They never try to escape again, and they don't live long after.

Most never come back and are never accounted for. If the guards are asked about it, they simply tell the other inmates that they 'earned their freedom’.

Corvo listens and watches and learns just what 'freedom' means here. It is open walls but oppressive wilderness, it is no chains but instead a torturous lack of time. It is an ending destined to occur in a salt mine, or in the mouth of a huge Tyvian wolf. There is nothing else to be offered. Freedom, here, is beyond madness.

Corvo does not dream of escape. To dream of escape is to be driven to that madness. Instead, he listens, he watches, he waits.

And he plans.

\------

“You know, I ain't never seen a Serkonan face before you showed up here, pretty boy.”

The man reeks of the salt and sulfur of the mines, but Corvo is unphased, both by the smell and the comments. He simply continues to quietly poke at his food, hungry after working on unloading whale oil for the compound all day. The sun is circling lower in a perpetual state of twilight; soon the months of darkness would be upon them, and even the Tyvian labor camp of Utyrka needed it's power supply. Things were already unbearably cold, and if reports were anything to go by, it was only going to get colder and lonelier.

“Hey, Southerner. Did you hear me? Or are you deaf as well as mute?”

Corvo scratches at his chin absently with his wrapped left hand, wondering when it'll be his turn to be allowed to shave. Or if he should even shave, considering the extra face protection is always a plus, and he never did like the cold.

A huge hand slams down on the table next to his elbow, the sound and feel of it reverberating through the thick wood under his plate.

“HEY! You think you're better than me? Look at me when I'm talking to you, you Serkonan piece of trash!”

Corvo sighs. His hand pauses on his chin and, hidden by his wrapping, a deep, burning itch crawls just under his skin. His does his best to ignore it. Instead, tired dark eyes raise to look his harasser in the face, wishing he could just ignore this man and finish his dinner. Or is it his breakfast? Time has no meaning when the work hours are endless and the sun doesn’t rise in the morning.

The man in front of him is large, burly, a huge nose and small eyes hidden under a mess of wiry hair. A Tyvian man who's been here for a while, by the looks of it. Corvo wonders absently how the man has managed to maintain his girth, but decides immediately that he doesn't want to know. There are a lot of… _coercive_ deals that occur in the compound that the guards look the other way to.

“Can I help you?” Corvo asks, eyebrows raising. The graveled and worn words tumble out, his throat still recovering from the last prison he had been in almost a year ago. The man reels back, eyes widening.

“O-ho, so you _do_ talk! And I thought everyone down in Serkonos was dumb as a heap of blood ox shit!” The man laughs, as if his statement is in any way humorous, as if he in any way can garner an audience. Nobody rises to the bait, however, which only aggravates the man even more. Corvo doesn't miss the subtle movements of the others present in the room, how they avert their gazes, how they shuffle further from the commotion.

Corvo takes a moment to wipe his mouth and hands with his napkin. A smooth motion; open, nonthreatening.

“I'm not sure what you're looking for, but I assure you, you aren't going to find it here. Now, if you'll excuse me-”

“I want you to show me some goddamn respect, you little street brat-”

The next moment happens fast, too fast for the other man to process. He might even state later it happened _unnaturally_ fast, in the blink of an eye, but the guards will just roll their eyes and move on. Without a witness, nobody cares. And Corvo works too fast for second opinions.

Corvo clenches his fist. The man had lunged across the table towards him, leaving him wide open. He only needed to stop time for a breath, lining up he shot perfectly, ducking and aiming between the ribs. The moment time resumed not even a second had passed, but the man found himself winded, coughing, fighting for the breath in his lungs. Corvo pulls back again, smashing his palm into the man's solar plexus, sending him reeling away and onto the floor. Corvo sighs, grabs his last forkful of food and gulps it down, ignoring the coughing mess of a man on the floor.

“I'm guessing you've been in the mines for most of the time I've been here,” Corvo says conversationally as he finishes his meal. “I'm Corvo Attano. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

With that, he wipes his mouth again, getting up and taking his tray back to the front, where the dish rack waits. Behind him, he hears the low voice of another prisoner helping the harasser to his feet.

“Sorry nobody told you, Kushner. But nobody messes with the Serkonan.”

\------

 _The Serkonan_ . That's how they know him here in Utyrka. It follows Corvo everywhere, like his own shadow. The Karnacan. The Southerner. _The Foreign._

For anyone else from Serkonos, banished to a land of ice and snow, this place may have been a real threat. Any other Serkonan would have gone mad from the cold on day one, their bodies unattuned to the freezing temperatures the extreme north can produce. They would have lost their sense of self from the constant sun that holds no warmth, or the endless night that makes even the most iron-willed slowly succumb to hysterics. The Serkonan people were a people of warmth, of song, of sand and sea and spirits. They were not a people made for the endless winter that grips the depths of Tyvia. They would all surely die here, frozen, eaten by the waiting packs of wolves.

Yet Corvo continues to to persevere, to plan, and to count his blessings.

_“I sentence you to freedom, Corvo Attano.”_

It's as if he hides in plain sight, here in Tyvia. Nobody knows him or what he has done for the Empire at large. Nobody has seen his face, so far removed from the rest of the Isles that the prison was. Nobody looks at him and asks about Dunwall, or the crown. They don't ask about how many people he killed avenging the Empress, nobody goads him by asking how it felt to have his own daughter send him to prison.

He is simply the _Serkonan_ , with his nice features and his olive skin and his long dark hair and obsidian eyes. He wears the title like armor, hiding his past and his deeds under it. These Tyvian inmates grunt out his foreign name like it’s a curse and he simply smiles, hearing it and adding it to the wall that he has built around himself.

If anything, it's the slander and the prejudice given to him that keep him sane, reminding him who he is. It gets him through the deepest part of the Month if High Cold, where storms wrack the compound and lesser men lose their wits, crying for the sun. It gets him through the work around the compound and in the mines, where time crawls and loses all meaning. Every so often he sees a body slump and fall from either exhaustion or madness. The guards pull them away, still or struggling, and Corvo watches, silent, his head down, clinging to his identity.

He is the Serkonan. He is the Southerner. And he will be the one to finally beat Utyrka.

\------

The Mark helps. Wrapped and hidden away, it remains Corvo's trump card in a world where weapons aren't allowed. Nobody asks about the wrap, and nobody who glimpses the Mark thinks of it as anything more than an old tattoo. For the sake of appearances, he simply tells the guards that he suffers from a stiff wrist, and this was the only way to stabilize it. It was easy to buy into and an easy enough explanation that no further questions followed. So his powers slip by, unnoticed, giving him an ability to escape the creeping madness of the north that no one else has access to.

At first, he barely uses his Mark, mostly out of fear. He had arrived during the light months in Tyvia, and due to heightened visibility and outdoor work, Corvo couldn't risk being spotted and penalized for such obvious heretical behavior. But as the sun skimmed the horizon and the endless night loomed, he started getting more adventurous, and for the first time in months, he felt for the power of the Void. It had flooded his whole body, bathing him in a hot energy, begging to be used. First, he had extended his vision, watching the guards and their patterns of coming and going. He had observed the other men and women, watching them as they made their ways through the mines and the chores around the encampment. He then watched the perimeters, making note of the hungry wolves and saber toothed bears lurking in the distance.

Soon after, Corvo had a complete mental map of the compound and roughly everyone in it.

Spurred by success, he then proceeded to push the boundaries of his blink. Calling the Void to his palm, he grabbed at the very fabric of reality, letting go with enough force to propel himself forward a short distance. With effortless aiming, he could climb his way over the rooftops of the compound’s buildings, even making it to the top of the North Tower. It gave Corvo an aerial view of the whole camp, but it had its limits; it was tiring to constantly use the power, to constantly throw himself through the space between the Void and the real world. He had forgotten how much mental energy such an action demanded and he found his reserves depleted much faster than normal.

It meant making any kind of escape from the compound by blink impossible; he'd be too tired to stand by the time he hit the deep wilderness. Stopping time around himself was even _worse_ ; he could manage a moment or so of suspended time before he had to let go of his grasp on the Void. It left him panting and shaking, despite the exhilaration that coursed his veins at such a feat.

The Mark helps, but it is not enough to give him an escape, not yet. Even if the guards never looked towards those who tried to flee, Corvo's powers would only get him fractionally farther than the average person. But with every passing day and every power practiced, he found himself getting a little bit stronger, and little less maddened by the never-ending darkness of the Tyvian winter.

\------

_Dear Em,_

_It was good to get your last letter. It can be so hard to tell time here in Tyvia during the winter. I will have to second what Sokolov said about the state of the weather here: it truly is dark for five months of the year. I guess you could say my special gift keeps me from going insane, but between the mines and the lack of sun, the days become harder and harder to count. I think time moves in strange ways here in Utyrka._

_If your last post date is anything to go by, the Month of Hearths will be ending which means it is nearly the Month of Seeds… Have I truly been gone over a year and half already? I miss you so much. I hope your studies are going well, and aren't too boring. I know that not everything can be as exciting as hearing about the harrowing tales of bear fights from the far north, but Callista means the best. Don't make her worry more than she already does._

_I'll end my letter here for now. I hope by the time your next letter arrives, the sun will be showing its face here in Tyvia again, and warming the gardens your mother loved so much back in Dunwall._

_All the best,_

_Corvo_

\------

He should have known he would attract unwanted attention eventually. He should have known that suspending time for milliseconds to quickly end fights would get him into trouble with the wrong people. These prisoners and miners weren't just work hands; they were murderers, spies, and traitors of the state. All of them have high crimes; they are dangerous people who don't like being laid low by a foreigner who barely breaks a sweat when dispatching his enemies.

Even with no walls, Utyrka is still a prison, and there are only so many blessings to count.

“Been skating along too easily for a while now, Serkonan,” Kunshner growls as he punches Corvo straight to the gut. Two other men hold Corvo’s hands behind his back, the angle painful as Kushner’s fist twists Corvo's body with the force of another blow. A woman looms over Kunshner’s shoulder, sneering as Corvo heaves, doing his best to not lose his lunch.

He only vaguely recognizes their faces, partially obscured by scarves or hats. Corvo's protective gear has already been tossed aside; his goggles lay shattered from Kushner's first hit, which had been hard enough to daze Corvo, giving the others a chance to hold him down. It had all lead to this moment, with laughter and jeering as Kushner punches Corvo hard enough to cut. The biting cold that slices into his skin with each hit is simply the anguished insult added to injury.

The cut on his cheek bleeds freely and his eye swells but still, he takes each hit. He had learned long ago, in the endless agony of Coldridge, Back then, he had learned to endure the blistering heat and searing brands the torturer gave him; the bone-chilling cold is as special sort of punishment, but these punches are nowhere near as bad as Coldridge was.

Nothing will _ever_ be as bad as Coldridge was for Corvo.

That doesn't make each blow hurt any less, any sneer or verbal jab any less wounding. It just makes all of it that much easier to outright _ignore_.

“Got nothing to say this time, eh Attano? No snarky one liners? No smart quip coming from that pretty mouth of yours?”

Kushner's fist hits Corvo's jaw and spots form in his vision. He shakes his head, doing his best to stay awake, not wanting to know what will happen to him if he blacks out. The blood pools in his mouth; he coughs and spits and can't stop the desperate laugh that bubbles up. He can feel Kushner pause, thrown off by the sound, foreign even to Corvo's ears.

If he can stall a little longer, he can get the guards, get someone over here, get his hand free, _something..._

“You so badly wanna be on my hit list, don't you?” Corvo manages to spit out, eyes growing dark with anger. “Keep going then. I'll see you in the Void, but only because I'll send you there myself personally.”

It is worth it just to see Kushner's face contort, to see his rage mutate into something far more sinister. Corvo can't calm the laughter in his ravaged gut and mouth, even as Kushner's buddies join in, doing their best to shut him up, _make him stop, just shut him up already!!_ But they can't, because it's all he has left, and still even then it's not the torture for six months he endured. _“Do your worst, you cowards,”_ he hears himself think, or maybe say aloud, he can't tell anymore.

Suddenly, there are different voices yelling and a different set of hands holding him, coming between Corvo and the other prisoners. He can feel his nose gushing blood, and is pretty sure it's broken. The cold air rushes in and stings against the gashes on his face and he really wishes he still had his hat and scarf because _damn_ more than anything, that hurts like the Outsider--

A hand grasps his and pulls. Over the ringing of his ears he can hear the guards yelling, bringing back order, telling inmates off and to get back to work lest they be thrown out to the wolves. Another voice, much closer to his ear, cuts clearly through Corvo's fogged mind.

“Sorry about that, Attano. Heard you laughing and would have brought the guards faster if I had known…”

Corvo looks to his right to focus on the owner of that voice, surprised to see a thin Tyvian man, face hidden behind a thick scarf and hat. His dark beard is longer than most, and Corvo vaguely realizes he doesn't recognize it, or it's owner. He stumbles, tries to hold himself up on his own feet.

“Easy,” the man says. “Those cretins did a number on you.” His voice has the same accent as Sokolov, Corvo registers, and he can't help but wonder if he is a man of the same Tyvian region, perhaps the same age even.

“Thanks,” Corvo manages words garbled by the blood. “For grabbing the guards.”

“Not a problem, Royal Protector.”

Corvo stiffens in the man's grip. For a hot second, he feels nothing but the burn of the cold on his open wounds. He turns to focus on the man more closely, the blood rushing in his ears.

“How do you--”

“The name’s Zhukov, Attano. I used to work for Burrows, once upon a time, and I know that you definitely _don't_ deserve to be here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to leave any messages, comments, kudos, whatever! I have a lot of this fic already planned out, and I'm hoping to post once a week, but might post twice a week to help move things alone a little bit! Feel free to subscribe, because more is guaranteed to come along the way. And yes, this will be EVENTUAL Corvo/Daud, but hang onto your buns because it's gonna be a while.


	2. Zhukov

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, good ol' Zhukov. 
> 
> My characterization is essentially 'well he was half crazy in Corroded Man anyway so who knows what he was REALLY like.'
> 
> Thank you so much for all the comments so far, it helps keep me writing and motivated to finish this fabulous story! And many thank yous to my amazing and fabulous beta [windsweptfic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/windsweptfic/pseuds/windsweptfic), who has been literally the best beta of all time. Pls read their fic.

“I always knew that Hiram Burrows was a snake, I was just too young and eager to see it when he hired me. You know he had me do spy work all over Tyvia under the pretense that I was serving Tyvian interests, the _crown's_ interests? It wasn't until Hiram ran off and the High Judges were after me with at least six counts of treason that I realized I'd been had.”

Zhukov talks with his hands. It's one of the first things Corvo notices, as they sit across from each other in the mess hall. Corvo winces against the bandages on his face as he eats, keeping his good eye quietly on Zhukov.

Chatty, animated Zhukov.

After the fight, Zhukov and a guard had helped Corvo to the infirmary, where they patched him up and sent him on his way. Afterwards, Zhukov suggested dinner, and since it wasn't like Corvo had any other plans in this frozen death trap, he obliged the offer.

Besides, the man had made it obvious that he _knew_ who Corvo was. Is? _Had been_ , at the very least. And, curious as he is, Corvo has to figure out how and why.

So he stays quiet, asks few questions, and listens to Zhukov as he talks with his hands.

“It wasn't until after I'd been here for six months or so that I heard from one of my Dunwall contacts what had happened,” Zhukov continues, shaking a fork at Corvo. “That the _Royal Protector_ had killed the Empress, and Burrows was acting Lord Regent. I was shocked at first, but as soon as I had heard that Void-damned man was involved, I knew you weren't at fault. He was just using another scapegoat, like he did with me.”

Zhukov stabs at his horned seal meat angrily before scooping up another bite.

“And now you’re here. Another sad victim in his game of pawns. Outsider’s bastard.”

Corvo is half listening by this point, chewing on his food absently, but something in Zhukov’s implication causes him to slow to a stop. He eyes the Tyvian man carefully, looking up and down his slim frame. His good eye squints, and the other man looks up, an eyebrow raising. A few beats pass between them before Zhukov sighs loudly.

“You really are a man of few words aren’t you, Attano. Do I have something on my fucking face? Spit it out.”

“I'm not here because I killed…” Corvo pauses, looking around the mess hall, his Mark itching. Zhukov knowing what happened in Dunwall was bad enough; Corvo doesn't need additional eavesdroppers.

However, everyone else in the hall is too engrossed in their own going ons to care about their long-winded conversation. He meets Zhukov’s gaze and watches as the man shakes his head a bit, eyes large, hands open to coax on whatever Corvo was going to say. Corvo sighs, and starts again.

“Yes,” he states. “I _was_ used as a scapegoat for Hiram to cover up the fact that he hired an assassin to kill the Empress. But I'm not here because of that false accusation.”

Corvo pauses, licks his lips carefully.

“I'm here because I killed too many people getting the crown back. Emi- _the Empress_ considered me a danger to Dunwall as a result, and sent me here on a sentence of freedom.”

Zhukov gives Corvo a scrutinizing look, and Corvo goes back to his food, too self conscious for this kind of conversation.

“And the Lord Regent?”

_The Lord Regent's voice bellowed over the speakers as Corvo looked down at the man himself, cowering like the worm he was. He begged for his life, but it was already gone; his sins were being broadcasted far and wide across Dunwall. The rat plague that devastated the city was his fault, and now everyone knew. If Corvo didn't kill him now, the populace would do it for him. And yet, still Hiram Burrows had begged. He cried, bargained, and pleaded. He pissed himself in the face of Death._

_It was disgusting._

_Moments later, Corvo watched from a perched position as the guards inevitably came in to arrest Hiram Burrows, only to find him slain on his bed, face still contorted in fear, smelling of blood and feces. His arm was pinned to the wall behind him with his own sword; a closer look found his very heart stabbed through and pinned to the fabric, blood soaking through the sleeve._

“He was dealt with accordingly,” is all Corvo says, giving no indication of the finer details of his assassination of the man who betrayed the crown and sold out his Empress. A silence settles between them. Corvo busies himself with eating while trying to ignore the sharp ache of his cut cheek; Zhukov digests both his meal and this new information.

“Well,” Zhukov says awkwardly, after a time. “Good riddance, then.”

“Mm,” Corvo affirms. More silence follows.

Corvo scratches a hand over his beard. He's going to need to trim it soon. Zhukov fidgets with his food.

“I'm going to be honest with you, Corvo,” Zhukov starts again. “This puts me in an awkward position.” He waits, but when Corvo doesn't respond, he continues on. “You are still an honorable man. So honorable, in fact, that you probably feel you _deserve_ to be here, working out your sentence.”

Corvo snorts and finishes chewing as he looks at Zhukov, a mirthless smile playing at his lips.

“Yes. Of course I do.” _But that does not make me honorable_ , he thinks bitterly.

“Then you are probably not interested in escaping this place, hm.”

If he hadn't sounded so serious, Corvo may have laughed again. Now though, Zhukov's voice lowers dangerously, and Corvo can feel the creep of unease on the back of his neck. His brow furrows but he has no response for Zhukov, not yet. Zhukov takes Corvo's silence as an invitation to continue talking, his lips twitching up in a quick smile as his voice rushes out of him.

“I'm sure you've noticed that this place is more than it appears. I’ve noticed it too; I even know a thing or two about it. Comes with whole 'being an ex-Tyvian spy’ deal. And regardless of your feelings, I think we're both floating along in the same screwed-over boat. And -- if we continue the boat metaphor -- if we both grab an oar and start paddling, we can help each other--”

“No.”

The answer comes out with such force that Zhukov shuts his mouth with an audible snap. Corvo clenches his left fist, opens it, desperately trying to get the deep itch of the Void out of his fingers. Corvo's eyes darken and he takes a steadying breath. Zhukov visibly shifts, distancing himself from the wave of wrath that is, no doubt, about to be directed right at him.

“No,” Corvo repeats, softly this time. “I agree, but no. I can't take that proposal. For my sake, if not yours.”

“But Corvo--”

The Serkonan stands, the action so fast Zhukov is taken aback. A shadow falls over Corvo's features and Zhukov shrinks.

“ _No_.”

Something is wrong here. Terribly, irrevocably _wrong_ . Corvo doesn't know why, but his gut is roiling, head spinning from all the alarm bells blaring in his ears. _Walk away from this_ , his instincts yell at him. _Forget this interaction_ . _Avoid Zhukov as much as possible._ It is stupid; he should have known as soon as Zhukov recognized him that--

“Okay,” Zhukov shrugs out, his body relaxed and fluid once again. His voice drops when he next speaks, a whisper over the noisy tables. “Just know there are strange happenings afoot here. An ever-present energy. So if you change your mind and want to help…”

Zhukov drums his fingers atop the table as his eyes flick to Corvo's hand and back up to meet his eyes. Corvo’s intake of breath is sharp as a shock of fear fills him. Did Zhukov know about...but how could he?

“Just let me know,” Zhukov finishes. “I'll be around. I mean, it's not like either of us are going anywhere any time soon, right?”

And just like that, Zhukov's mannerisms switch from serious and deadly to light and amiable. The shock of it fills Corvo, and he's still standing there, watching the other man go, until he is alone and adrift in the sea of humans filling the mess hall.

\------

It is never a good night for Corvo when he falls asleep only to wake to the sound of whale songs lamenting in the distance.

Corvo's eyes open to see his tiny dorm filled with a soft blue light. He sits up and the chill that greets him is both unreal and familiar, all at the same time. It is a far cry from the bitter, permeating cold that Tyvia is so known for; no, this is a cold that came from within and surrounds him like a veil. It is the chill of deep water, of whale oil, of death.

It's the chill one gets from entering the Void.

Preparing himself, Corvo opens his quarters’ door and steps out into a very different landscape. It's a world that is no longer the icy, bitingly cold halls of Utyrka, but a empty space that stretches until eternity. Islands made of a black, obsidian-like rock hang suspended, their long paths breaking and stretching into the distance. Sometimes they lead to moments of time, pulled from Corvo's mind and frozen for all eternity. It is a land where a soft blue hangs over everything, a dark gold light threatening on the horizon. It is a place where water flows upwards and whales cry and still-beating hearts tell the secrets of men.

Slowly, carefully, Corvo clenches his left fist and blinks out, embracing the Void stretching before him. He jumps and crosses multiple platforms, passing the happenings of the world suspended in time, before Corvo finds what he’s looking for.

In the shape of a slender young man dressed in grey and black, the Outsider stands on a crumbling stone island, studying a frozen image of Zhukov. The form under scrutiny looks marginally younger and more clean-shaven than the man Corvo met earlier, but the sharp black hair and long nose are indistinguishable. As Corvo grunts and walks up, the ethereal form of the Outsider turns to face his Marked, black eyes boring through him, as if watching his very soul.

It smiles. Corvo manages a frown in return.

“What do you want, Outsider.”

The whale god tilts Its head, manages to look sad, if only for moment.

“Oh, Corvo. Not even a hello for an old friend such as myself? You must be so lonely out here in this frozen world, so far away from Emily, and everyone else you wonder about in the dark when you assume nobody is there to listen to your thoughts.”

Corvos fist clenches and he closes his eyes, counting to five before reopening them. “If you cared about how bored I am out here, you would have visited a lot sooner than this. What. Do you want.”

The Outsider was a being that held the visage of a young man, but this only barely hides Its true, immense nature. The Leviathan dematerializes into smoke and obsidian, only to rematerialize next to Corvo, pacing, hands folded behind Its back.

“Oh but Corvo, you aren't bored here! There's so much work to be done: mining, electrical upkeep, making friends...or is Zhukov more truthfully an enemy?”

The being disappears and settles before Corvo, sitting on a block of Void, chin in Its hand as It smiles at the man innocently. Corvo watches back, shaking his Marked hand nervously.

“He knows about the Mark, doesn't he.” Corvo doesn't pose the statement as a question. The Outsider doesn't really answer it anyway.

“Kristopher Zhukov knows many truths of the mortal world. If he doesn't know the full truth of something, he will know enough to scare. He likes to have secrets, and he loves his current secret most of all. He's torn between telling you that secret, and letting you guess after it.”

The Outsider frowns now, looking back to the frozen form of the younger Zhukov.

“So I'm here to... _caution_ you, Corvo. Zhukov can help you escape, it's true. But what will it cost him? What will it cost _you_? Even I do not know. Something about him makes his future clouded. Unknown. Perhaps he has already seen what his end will be.”

“What does that even mean?”

The Outsider turns to face Corvo, the movement stiff and unnatural. Those black eyes pierce him like shattered glass.

“It means to be _careful_ , dear Corvo. There are forces at work here in the cold wastes of Tyvia, forces more powerful and awful than even myself. However… if you tread lightly, your feet will find the way out.”

Corvo opens his mouth, ready to ask more questions, but the air rushes out of him like a breath after plunging into cold water. He gasps and coughs as he abruptly awakens, nearly rolling onto the hard floor of his room from the force of being thrown out of the Void. Cursing, he shakes his smoking left hand, willing it back to normalcy.

“Damn that Outsider,” he growls out angrily. “Damn It to the Void and back.”

Despite the inconvenience and annoyance he feels, however, Corvo can't get the Outsider’s words out of his head. Instead, he quietly repeats them, like a mantra.

_Caution, Corvo. Be careful._

_Tread lightly and your feet will find the way out._

\------

Paranoia is a natural state of being for Corvo Attano. He doesn't trust easily and he never has; it made him a great swordsman and an even better protector. It is a sense of awareness that has helped keep alive more than once in the past; now, though, his paranoia is no better than a festering wound he can't stop picking at.

For all the cryptic warnings and messages he had received from the Outsider, Corvo got next to nothing for them. Time passes at the prison in its increasingly weird way, and Corvo itches with worry. With the sun now up and getting higher, Corvo doesn't feel safe using his powers to blink and survey the compound, causing him to itch even more. He catches himself massaging his left hand more than he’d like to, trying to calm the deep-seated ache that dwells right under the surface. It reached a point to where a guard noticed, asking if he needed to get his stiff hand checked. He had to hurriedly throw out an apology, saying he was fine before scurrying off and back to work.

 _Caution, Corvo,_ the Outsider had told him. _Be careful. Tread lightly._

He thinks on the words often but they just leave him with more questions. Caution towards _who_ ? Careful of _what_ ? Tread lightly _where_? The Outsider never appears to give him more answers. Instead Corvo is left to stew in his paranoia, cursing the Outsider for every passing day that leaves his nerves on edge. Another month passes. After a while, Corvo can't tell if he really thinks there's a strange presence in Utyrka, or if his mind is playing tricks on him.

The worst of it all is Zhukov is still ever present. Corvo swears up and down that he never once saw Zhukov, but now, he's everywhere. Perhaps he had spent most of his time stuck in the mines, where Corvo didn't see him. Or perhaps now that the sun  was constantly up, his shifts had moved  to  the compound  at large. Or maybe he had always been there, and Corvo just recognizes him now and can therefore pick him out of the crowd. Whatever the reason, Zhukov is now a constant presence in the prison, always just on the edge of Corvo's vision. Corvo does his best to ignore him, but as time passes and no answers come forth, he realizes the inevitable.

Sooner or later, Corvo is going to have to confront Zhukov for information. So, despite the way his Mark sears in his hand and how much his senses tell him to leave, he sets his food down across from Zhukov one day in the Month of Clans, his face as stony as Zhukov's is bright.

“Corvo! It's been some time since we last saw each other! Are you well?”

Corvo tries not to think about how he's sure that Zhukov has been watching him just as closely as he has been watching Zhukov. They both _“saw each other_ ” less than a day ago. It's moments like this that Corvo is not surprised Zhukov was once a renowned spy. He is very good at keeping up appearances. Which also means he expects Corvo to do the same.

“Fine,” Corvo says, a little less stiffly. “The weather is good for my hand; my joints tend to get stiff in the cold.”

This is lie. He watches to see if Zhukov catches it. The sparkle in the man's eyes tells him he did, in the worst possible way.

_Be careful._

_“_ Hmm! Yes, I suppose neither Dunwall or Serkonos gets quite this cold. Even during the summer thaw, it isn't that warm up here.” Zhukov motions for Corvo to sit and he does so, only now realizing that he'd been standing with only his food set onto the table. Zhukov makes a subtle look down the table.

“Mind if I take a look at your wrist?”

Corvo's eyes flick up to Zhukov's face. The man interlaces long bony fingers evenly on the table. Corvo responds by rolling his wrist and stretching his fingers.

“Don't worry about it. It won't get in the way of my work, if that's what you're worried about.”

“Of course, didn't mean to pry. But you may want to look into getting a new wrap. That one is quite frayed.”

“Thank you. I'll look into it,” Corvo says lightly, and they both fall into a silence as they eat their food. After they are done eating, Corvo and Zhukov say their goodbyes, both quick to head out to their respective manual labors for the day.

“Same time tomorrow?” Zhukov asks conversationally. As if this was a regular occurrence.

Corvo glances at the clock. Glances at Zhukov.

_Tread lightly._

“Sure. I'll be here.”

They part ways as if nothing more than a casual meeting happened, both knowing that isn't the case at all.

They meet the following day, as well as the day after that. With the sun high in the sky now, almost everyone was up out of the salt mines and working while the weather was fair. Schedules align more easily. Nearly every day, Zhukov and Corvo are able to meet, eat, and exchange pleasantries.

Except they aren't pleasantries at all.

It's subtle, but the veins of serious conversation run just below the surface of each word. The meetings, however, are amiable enough. Zhukov has many stories and makes for an interesting companion. Despite this, Corvo is not sure what trust means to the other man; even as the secrets slip by, Corvo is not sure yet how much to tell Zhukov, and watches each step with a calculated eye.

As a result of his own careful efforts and Zhukov's intel, Corvo's mental map of Utyrka grows.

For example, Corvo has now learned through their banter that Utyrka utilizes an underground railway for the guards to rotate shifts and renew supplies. Corvo has known about this railway because the inmates come in through these tunnels, but that was basic knowledge. Now, he knows rough schedules of the railcar comings and goings. He knows how long the tunnels are. He knows most people who try to escape through those tunnels die because of a lack of oxygen, a lack of food, a lack of water, or all of the above.

Corvo has learned the true perimeter of the grounds, and how that changes based on visibility. He knows the furthest body from Utyrka succumbed to frostbite 25 kilometers out. It's been out there for 74 years, roughly, untouched even by the wolves and so perfectly preserved it looks like the person dropped yesterday. The guards don't pursue anyone, because nobody has ever really escaped. The Tyvian wilderness is just too harsh for the mere mortal human to handle on their own.

Corvo has also learned that in the over 500 years since the prison has been operational, only about a thousand prisoners have ever served their full sentences. No matter the length, almost all prisoners die here. Some will be here for life, though very few have lasted longer than ten years. Many will try to escape; most, though, succumb to the harsh labor and maddening lack of sunlight. There are even stories of prisoners losing their minds and just wandering off, only to be found months later, dead and curled in a salt cave alcove. No matter their demise, nobody ever has escaped, and only a few have survived.

By the time the sun sets, Corvo’s knowledge of Utyrka is much greater than it was when the sun rose.

Despite this, Corvo never relaxes. His skin still prickles when around Zhukov, his heart still races like he should blink away and never look back. Against his gut instinct, Corvo stays, listening and learning because, just like him, Zhukov has a secret. And Corvo is so close to that secret, he can practically feel it brush up against his fingertips.

It’s the day after the sun finally dips under the horizon that Corvo makes his move. Like a cat, he plans every step, silently stalking closer the breaking point.

“Zhukov,” Corvo says after they eat, grabbing the attention of the thin man. Zhukov doubles back, eying Corvo curiously. The good weather and lack of salt mine work has been good for Zhukov; over the summer his skin had tanned and his eyes had cleared. He also found time to keep his beard trimmed; now, it twitches, a subtle smile tugging at his cheeks.

“Corvo!”

“Can I talk to you for a second? I was going to look into that new wrap you suggested…”

Zhukov doesn't need a second hint; the eager curiosity shines on his face even as he makes his way over to Corvo slowly and evenly. Corvo motions him around a corner of the complex, just out of the guard’s earshot. It's deadly cold without the sun, the darkness stretching away from them and only punctuated by the occasional whale oil lamp. When Zhukov pauses, Corvo tugs him a little further along, pulling them out of the light entirely. Hot vapor billows from their mouths in clouds as they hurry along.

“Corvo, what is it? I, uh-- _woah._ ” Zhukov stops only to be started again by Corvo's powerful grip pulling him along. “Ow-- _yikes_ , hey is it just me or is your hand really...warm?”

Corvo looks down at his hand and abruptly lets go, shaking it off. Steam rises gently from under the wrapping. Corvo swallows hard, composing himself.

“Sorry, I didn't realize--”

“This meeting has nothing to do with a new hand wrap, does it.”

Corvo looks at Zhukov, who knowingly looks right back. He takes a deep breath, his fingers flexing nervously, instinctively.

“No,” Corvo starts, between breaths. The cold air bites at his lungs with each inhale. “It doesn't. But--”

He pauses, choosing his words.

 _Caution, Corvo_.

“Zhukov, you've told me-- a _lot_ on what we need to do to get out of here. But I haven't told you how _I_ can help us.”

Corvo hesitates only a second before he starts to carefully unwrap his hand. The Mark underneath burns, as if wanting nothing more than to be exposed to the cold air, to be _used._ Zhukov’s eyes watch, confused, until the long strip of cloth falls away, revealing Corvo's left hand in its entirety. Corvo exhales in relief, watching the Mark as it burns and glows with a sensation that goes deeper than just skin.

Corvo can just barely hear the sharp intake of breath from Zhukov over the Tyvian wind.

“Oh,” Zhukov breathes out. His hands tremble as they hover over Corvo's Mark. Somewhere in the back of Corvo's mind, an alarm bells rings and his Mark sears painfully as the other man nears it. He does his best to ignore it.

“You know what this is, don't you,” Corvo says, keeping his hand just out of reaching distance.

“I--yes, but only the stories, never in person.” Zhukov's breathing is short. “To think that...all this time…”

More alarms, more pain. Corvo gently pulls his Marked hand back, and it's like a spell is lifted from Zhukov. He meets Corvo's eyes as Corvo slowly wraps his hand, hiding the Mark of the Outsider from the cold.

“ _This_ is what I can offer you. The darkest months are when I can use my...abilities the most without being seen.” _Careful_. “But even my powers are not enough for an assured escape. I just can't stretch that far. I still need your help, Zhukov.”

He stares Zhukov down, eyes burning like dark embers.

“Can I trust you with this secret?”

Zhukov inhales. The Outsider didn't lie; the man loves his secrets. Zhukov is nearly shaking in excitement and triumph, as if he always knew but Corvo telling him made it official.

“Yes, of course,” he says, his voice barely over a whisper. “I didn't work for ten faithful years under the royal spymaster just to sell out your secret here. I want to get out of here and clear my name too.”

Corvo nods, massaging his wrist. He shifts, turns.

“Good. Now, we should get back before the guards ask, and before the food gets--”

“Wait.”

Corvo turns, watching Zhukov carefully, a frown on his lips. Zhukov is fidgeting, as if on the verge of explaining something else.

“I have something else for you, too. That I need to tell you, because maybe you can help me understand it. You might be the only one who does. I would have mentioned it sooner, but I didn't know...about…” he finishes by gesturing towards Corvo's left hand.

Corvo's frown deepens as his insides chill over. “What is it?”

Before he can respond, a guard yells out to them. Both of them jump, turning to see who it is that's calling out.

Two guards plow up to them, waving for their attention. They are in full Utyrka gear, their heavy coats and thick eyewear hiding their identities.

“Oi! Is that you, Attano, Zhukov?”

 _Shit_. Both of them straighten, fearing the worst. Zhukov squints in recognition.

“Stine, is that you? Yes it's me, I'm here with Attano.”

Zhukov waves back, and Corvo eyes him carefully. Whatever he was about to reveal, Zhukov has already buried it away like a mouse buries its storage.

“Excellent,” Stine says as she nears. “I'm glad we found you. I have a new assignment and you're just the man I need. Attano, you can help; this is a two-man job at the very least.”

Somewhere, soft and faint, a ringing starts in Corvo's ears. It almost reminds him of _another_ sound, singing softly, beckoning him, led by a still-beating heart. He squints against the reverberation, shaking his head to be rid of it.

“What can we do for you, Stine?”

“We found a new tunnel in the mines -- need to see if it leads anywhere fresh. You're the best man for the job, Zhukov. Follow us; they'll be wanting you both down in the mines, effective immediately.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I won't update until after the weekend is past us, HAVE A HAPPY HOLIDAYS EVERYONE!! It's cold outside and also in Tyvia but don't worry Corvo won't be there too much longer. :D


	3. Siren Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently in my last note I lied and I'm too impatient so I guess I'm on a twice-a-week update for now! I'm still writing the final chapters but I may keep this Wednes-Friday schedule for a few more weeks as I want to catch up a bit! Have a happy holiday weekend, and enjoy!

The Isle of Tyvia.

For as inhospitable as the land is, it commands quite a few major exports around the Isles. One of those exports is spirits and ales; Tyvian wine is a highly sought after drink, and is said to rival the tastes of even Cullero’s legendary grapes. And then there is Tyvian silk and jewelry, which was so fine the old Princes of Tyvia swore by the beauty and grace it exuded. Lumber is also a strong export, as is their blood ox, the largest in the Isles. Tyvia is also known for its people, who bring a culture so rich, it is said to be unlike any other. To be Tyvian is to be a breed apart.

But there is a lesser known export from Tyvia that is used all across the Empire: salt. Preserved deep in Tyvia’s cold heart, trapped in the glaciers and permafrost, lies some of the most flavorful and mineral-rich salt in the land. Only by mining through the ice caverns can the salt be extracted, a salt that is said to hold a rare and exquisite flavor that comes from the Void itself. Of course such claims are nonsense, but it keeps the salt in high demand, and keeps the labor encampments like Utyrka funded, year after year.

That doesn't make the work of extracting ice and salt from the mines any easier. It's a job which is so hazardous, it's easier for the High Judges to sequester the job of harvesting the mineral onto the backs of their prisoners, rather than to endanger the lives of its citizens. Utyrka still claims more lives than any other labor camp in Tyvia, the inmates succumbing to everything from hypothermia to illness to dehydration to madness.

All in the name of delicious, flavorful, affordable _salt_.

At least the mines are warmer than the surface during the months of Darkness and High Cold. The temperature is constant and damp, meaning work is not stalled or encumbered by weather. Instead, hazards such as cave-ins, getting lost in dead ends, being impaled from salt stalactites, and gaseous buildup of substances like carbon dioxide replace the intense wind, snow, and ice of the surface.

One of the more risky and dangerous tasks for miners is opening up new pathways and traversing recently-found caverns and passageways. Cave-ins can happen at any time during these jobs, and there is no guarantee of a safe return, even if a vein of salt can be found.

But it's a necessary job, and the one that Corvo and Zhukov currently have set before them.

“It's a small cavern," Stine explains as they make their way down the tunnels through the mines, the proper path illuminated by glowing lanterns.

Stine, as it turns out, is a large Tyvian woman, towering a whole head above Corvo. Her auburn hair is braided behind her head in two large pleats.

“The first team of the season discovered it as soon as they started digging, meaning they had to stop to report it and we lost a whole day's worth of work. And we'll lose even more if you two don't quickly travel through the cavern and discover what's on the other side.”

Zhukov nods, taking all the facts into account. Corvo listens as well; he's no stranger to mine work, but most of his time down here has been spent in the larger caverns, where extraction is slowly taking place. This task will be the complete opposite and involve straining through small openings and carefully checking each room before moving on.

If anything, it is exactly this kind of work that he excels at. As does the skinny, ex-spy Kristopher Zhukov.

It takes a good thirty minutes of careful trudging to get down into the part of the glacier where the new extraction tunnel had been discovered. Stine explains that this tunnel is one of the older mines, with nearly all of it being thoroughly explored.

“To even find a new cavern down here is as surprising as it is exciting,” she says as she hands them their gear. The cavern reverberates sound in an odd way, and Corvo winces at how the noise rattles in his ears. Stine pauses, watching him closely. “You gonna be okay for this, Attano?”

Zhukov looks at him as well, watching him with an undercurrent of worry. As the sound of their voices quiet, so does his head, allowing him to wave it off.

“Yeah,” he says. “Just a headache.”

“Well, let us know if it gets worse. Zhukov, let us know if you get one too. We don't need you two dying down here due to leaked gases.”

“No, no, it's the sound. Voices are weird and amplified.”

Stine visibly relaxes. “Oh, we have had reports of that in this cavern, but nothing long-lasting. I would advise not to stick around down there too long, for your ears’ sake.”

Both of them nod, readying themselves to head into the cavern opening before them. It's more a slice in between two slabs of ice than an opening, one that is just large enough for a grown man to slide into. Corvo can feel a breeze moving through, signaling the cavern opening up further in. He sees Zhukov ready a lantern on his side, taking a deep breath.

“I'll head in first, then.”

A rope connects him to Corvo, just in case of emergency; he tugs on it experimentally to test its strength before ducking down and crawling in the space.

Both Corvo and Stine wait a few ticks, listening for Zhukov and watching the length of his rope. After a few minutes of waiting, Zhukov calls back through the icy crack.

“All clear. You ready, Corvo?”

“As ready as I can be,” he calls back, and gathers his own gear and lamp.

“Myself and another guard, Pierce, will be here to wait for you. However, from this point forward, you're on your own.”

Corvo nods, his fist clenching. Without another word he turns and slides through the opening after Zhukov, slithering in like a snake through water.

It is easy, almost _too_ easy, to drop right back into the old routine of crouching, sneaking, and sliding to fit between a space. In record time, he slips through the crack and steadies himself, looking up at Zhukov who is waiting for him at the other end. Zhukov offers a smile and a hand, which Corvo takes to pull himself upright.

“Doing alright so far, Attano?”

“Just another day chasing after Emily in Dunwall Tower,” he says casually, lifting his lantern to get a look around. The cavern is definitely larger on this end, but darker, lacking the wired electricity that lit the other side. The lights from their lanterns bounce all around the shining ice walls, distorting the view and disguising pathways and features. The ringing in his ears returns, a stubborn tinnitus that buzzes like a fly he can't swat away. He frowns, straining his senses, trying to place the direction of the sound when--

“You must miss her a lot.”

Corvo turns to look at Zhukov, who is watching him closely. His own lantern light bounces awkwardly around the room, making the shadows lengthen on his face. Corvo realizes belatedly that this is the first time he's even talked about or just _mentioned_ Emily or Jessamine to anyone for over two years. It’s just been easier to keep it a secret from everyone.

“Yes.” His heart pangs painfully in his chest. “I write to her every now and then, when I'm allowed. She writes back. I miss her terribly.”

“I know she's your daughter.”

“I figured as much.”

“And I'm sorry for your loss--”

“Come on, let's search the room,” Corvo says, cutting Zhukov off, not unkindly.

With plenty of headroom in the cavern, Corvo has no trouble distancing himself from Zhukov. He walks a few smooth paces away, all the while sweeping his lantern around the room, looking for more potential passageways.

“I'm sorry,” Corvo softly hears from behind him. “I didn't mean to pry.”

Corvo's heart beats loudly in his ears, memories flooding back unbidden. He does his best to take a steadying breath.

“It's fine. I just don't want to talk about it right now.”

He doesn't want to think about the sad voice that had whispered to him when he didn't want it to. He doesn't want to think about how Emily is in Dunwall Tower and he is here, with no idea how she's feeling or what she's doing. His mind thinks back to her face, wet with tears and full of shock, calling for Corvo as the Whalers dragged her away and Daud had put a blade in Jessamine's chest, stopping her heart.

The Outsider had called it a _gift_ to give that heart back to him, to hear that damned melancholy whisper in his ear. He had hated that heart as much as he had loved feeling it beat next to his own, murmuring secrets and opening his ears to the songs of runes and bone charms.

Like a living memory that old familiar song registers to his ears, reverberating in his chest. A nearby object was resonating, calling to him like a siren. He swallows, shaking his head, trying not to listen or follow the sound.

“Zhukov, have you found anything yet?”

“Not yet. These chambers aren't usually this big, though. If there are any leads, we should find them--oh!”

Corvo turns, joining Zhukov on the other side of the cavern. Zhukov's lantern is high above his head; as Corvo nears, their combined light reveals a large section of the cavern, breaking off into multiple tunnels. Unlike the natural formations around them, however, these were all carved into the glacial wall, smooth and uniform. Corvo takes a step forward, examining one of the tunnels.

“Strange. Someone has been here before.”

“But how is that even possible? This cavern was just found yesterday and it's not on any records.”

“Well, clearly someone was here before, and I don't think they were here to harvest salt.”

“Have any idea which one we should travel down first?”

Corvo thinks for a moment, before taking a breath. He lets his left hand burn as he pulls for the Void, drawing it over his eyes. The whispers follow his movement and he watches the pulses of energy flow down each cavern passageway. However, even with his advanced vision, nothing can cut through the gloom of the tunnels or reveal any secrets to him. The four paths continue too deep into the glacier for his sight to see.

He pulls back and waves off the Void, the world returning to normal, the hues realigning correctly and the whisper on the wind leaving his ears. He goes back to Zhukov, waiting a few paces away. As he nears, the thin man takes a few steps back, his eyes shining with trepidation and excitement.

“You--you did a thing didn't you?”

“Yes, I used the Void to look into the darkness. It's one of my-- _gifts.”_ Gifts, curses; they are all the same to the Outsider.

Zhukov let's out a whistle.

“See anything interesting?”

Corvo shakes his head. “The tunnels lead far into the cave; too far even for the Void to show me. We'll either have to pick one and follow it to the end or split up, but I don't really like either option.”

Zhukov shifts, thinking. “Well. I might have an idea.” Corvo raises an eyebrow at him, silently asking him to continue. Zhukov licks his lips and shifts again. “Remember how I said I had another secret?”

“Sure.”

“This is it.”

Corvo looks at him as Zhukov sweeps an arm towards the tunnels. After a concerned beat, Corvo looks back at Zhukov.

“I'm not sure I follow. These tunnels are your secret? Did you-- carve them out?”

Zhukov shakes his head hastily and then goes up to each tunnel in turn, speaking as he does so.

“No it's just-- have you ever heard of deja vú? It's the feeling of experiencing something before, even though it's the first time you're having the experience.” He turns his lantern back to Corvo. “I've never been here before, but I've _been here before.”_

Corvo can feel the hair on his neck prickle uncomfortably. He isn't sure he's liking the implication of this.

“In your dreams, I'm guessing.”

“I--yes.”

“And I'm there too, in your dreams, aren't I.”

“I'm afraid so.”

“Shit. _Shit.”_

He paces angrily, trying not to take it out on Zhukov, mind reeling with thoughts and questions. Chiefly, if Zhukov was having dreams, was the Outsider showing himself to Zhukov? And if so, why the hadn't the Outsider told Corvo of this development? Even when Pierro was getting his nightly Outsider dreams, Corvo was completely aware. He _knew_. But this? This was another level entirely.

“This is how you knew I had a Mark,” Corvo laughs bitterly. _“Spirits_ , the dreams showed me using my Mark.”

“Yes, I mean...I had _suspected_. I didn't know what it was, really. I didn't even think the dreams were real. I started getting them before I saw you at Utyrka.”

Corvo stops pacing and stands, hands on hips, shaking his head. “Great. Well, here we are. We can't go back to the guards empty-handed. We have no choice but to move forward. Do you know which one of these Void-damned tunnels we are supposed to take?”

Zhukov's breath hitches and he looks back at the tunnels, a small sound escaping him. Corvo gives himself space to calm down and just breathe. He runs his fingers through his long black hair, trying and failing to straighten out his thoughts. The Outsider was involved now. That changed _everything_. It had told Corvo that Zhukov had a secret, he just didn't think it was anything like...like _this_.

“Corvo?”

Corvo’s head shoots back up, looking for Zhukov. He is standing sheepishly by the tunnels; Corvo sighs and comes over to stand with him.

“You don't know, do you,” he provides, only slightly dismayed.

“It's more than that.” Zhukov inclines his head, moving his lantern towards the tunnels. “Do you remember how I said I might need your help? Well, do you…You hear it too, don't you?”

Corvo searches Zhukov’s face, tries to formulate his response.

“What do you hear, exactly, Zhukov?”

Zhukov looks down and away, pacing the tunnels. “It-- it sounds like a whale, but sad. Like something crying, anyway. Is this what the ancient music sounds like?”

Corvo doesn't grace Zhukov with the knowledge that the ancient music from the Overseers’ boxes is one of the last sound anyone wants to hear. Ever.

“Do you know where it's coming from?” Corvo asks instead.

Zhukov deliberates for a moment, before finally choosing the far right tunnel. He looks at Corvo, face worried but determined. “This one. It’s-- it's this one.”

“Alright then, let's get moving.”

Zhukov wastes no time leading the way. Corvo waves his left hand across his vision, pulling the Void with him, listening for the whispers and any secrets the tunnel might reveal to him. He waits a moment, ears straining, until finally he hears it: the faint call of the Void, filling him with dread but pulling him forward just the same.

\------

With every second that passes, Corvo can't help but think he's making a huge mistake.

At the same time, he also has no choice but to press onward, each step taking him deeper into the glacial cavern. Ahead of him walks Zhukov, his lantern swaying from his belt, casting long shadows. The tunnel they have chosen is exceptionally long and winding, and if his gazing into the Void was to be believed, offers no change in scenery. There are no other branches to the tunnel and the walls never change. Sometimes the passage widens and other times they close in, sometimes so close Zhukov and Corvo have to move through one at time, squeezing carefully through each opening.

More than once Corvo thinks he hears the lamenting of a long-dead whale and fears they've somehow crossed into the Void itself, but they never emerge onto a large floating platform in space, to which Corvo is eternally grateful.

It is a good while of careful forward progress before Zhukov finally speaks up.

“So, your Mark. How'd you get it?”

Corvo can hear the nervousness coloring his words, so he obliges in the invitation to chat.

“Well, a group of people claiming to be my friends broke me out of Coldridge before I was sentenced to be executed for the false accusation of killing the Empress. When I went to sleep that night, the Outsider came to me and Marked me as a way to change my fate. Guess the black-eyed bastard thought I'd give It a good show.”

“And then you got Emily back on the throne?”

“Yes, and I killed everyone in my way who needed to be brought to justice. Like Burrows.”

“Did you ever find the actual killer?”

“Yes. I did. It was a hired assassin; Daud.”

“I know of that name; Hiram hired him many times for jobs. Did you kill him?”

“No.”

“What? Why?” Zhukov sounds genuinely surprised as he glances back at Corvo.

“I--”

But Corvo doesn't have a response ready, because something finally floats into his vision: an object, glowing somewhere in the distance.

All at once, the sounds grows stronger, filling his head and his chest.

“Zhukov, do you hear that?”

Zhukov doesn't respond; it's like he knows what Corvo has seen, and his eyes grow wide, turning towards the ringing of the object.

“Zhukov, be careful, I think something is up ahead and it's what's making that sound.”

“You hear it calling for you, too? Or is it just me? I thought-- I _hoped--”_

Zhukov's tone is strange, far off, and suddenly he's surging forward, running down the length of the tunnel. Corvo yells to him, cursing as Zhukov loops out of view. Corvo has to blink forward in a bid to keep up, grabbing at Zhukov's shoulder.

“Zhukov, calm down, what--” 

Corvo gasps as they both enter into the final chamber. He lets go of Zhukov, fighting for breath as they cross over an invisible threshold.

It hits Corvo like a crossbow bolt, bringing him to his knees. The pressure of the room is immense, as if matter itself is bearing down on him. His head and chest both feel trapped in a vice; for a wild moment, he is back in the Overseer’s chambers, that damned music rendering him powerless, the force of the Void turned against him. In his ears, the whales cry as they die, their distress palpable as they cross to the Void, and his vision swims with tears.

Through it all, his lifts his head, managing a glance around the room. The only thing there besides them is a shrine, a nondescript thing in the middle of the glacier, and a table with something terrible there, waiting for the two them.

_Caution, Corvo. There are things here more powerful and awful than even me._

Spirits, he's made a terrible mistake.

“Zhukov, Zhukov-- _don't touch that thing.”_ The words come out as a gasp as the music fills him, drowning him. He takes a gulping breath, and another. His hand burns and smokes as he forces himself to stand back up and face Zhukov. The other man somehow has not fallen, and Corvo wonders if it's because he doesn't have a Mark, can't feel the powerful magic the same way Corvo can.

But a closer look shows Corvo he's not seeing Zhukov at all anymore, instead staring at a man possessed.

“Zhukov,” he starts a little more forcefully. “Zhukov, _look at me.”_

Zhukov is watching the shrine, his eyes huge, his limbs shaking. He is trembling not in fear, but excitement.

“This--this is it. The dreams showed me, but I didn't think-- and then you showed up and it's real it's actually _real_ , we can _escape_ …”

“Zhukov, whatever your dreams showed you, whatever the Outsider said, you don't have to listen to them.” Corvo tries to quell the desperation in his voice, tries to keep his eyes on Zhukov, and not whatever was awaiting them on that shrine. “There are other paths, ones we can't see, it may not play out like you think it will, _please--”_

“The Outsider didn't show me this, the Knife itself showed me this. It wanted me to find it, Corvo.” He pulls his eyes away to meet Corvo's, and Corvo doesn't like what he sees there. A cracked smile breaks Zhukov's face in two. “Don't you see? This was meant to happen. The Knife knew I would find you, that we would get this assignment. And now…”

“Knife?” Corvo's brain reels; had the Outsider ever mentioned a knife? A weapon of any kind? Before he can register, Zhukov is running, lunging forward, grabbing for the shrine.

“Zhukov, wait!” Corvo grabs for Zhukov's arm, hoping to stop his fall.

As he does, his eyes travel to land on the object of interest, waiting for them both on a pedestal of ice.

It's as if time slows. All his senses hone in on an ancient-looking blade, and try as he might, Corvo can't tear his eyes away. The knife itself is dual-bladed, joined at the hilt and split down the center. The runes carved in the bronze finish resonate with the Void, the sound filling his ears. The guard reminds Corvo briefly of an overseer’s saber, joining the two bronze blades together.

Corvo can hardly breathe, can hardly move as he feels the Knife focus on him as if it is _watching him_ but suddenly Zhukov is there, is wrapping his hand around the hilt, shouting in triumph. It's far too late to react as Corvo watches the man lunge for him, ready to shove the blades into his shoulder. He catches a glimpse of wild eyes, of the madness gripping Zhukov as he cries out and swings upwards with the Knife.

Then, all at once, his arm stops.

Zhukov shudders, unable to move. He pulls his arm back, tries again. With a deafening shriek emanating out from the Knife, Zhukov's arm is forced to still, mid-swing.

“Wh--what?? But--”

Corvo watches, transfixed, as Zhukov seems unable to control his own body anymore. Zhukov yells, he thrashes, but no matter what happens, he cannot thrust the twin blades into Corvo. All the while, the Knife screams in his grasp, the sound a mixture of screeching metal and lamenting whalesong.

“No! This isn't what I saw! The dreams--I have to--” But Zhukov is cut off with a startled cry. The hand clutching the Knife starts turning into something akin to obsidian; It flakes and scrapes against itself, traveling straight up his arm. Zhukov screams, crying for help and Corvo has the horrid realization that the Knife is turning Zhukov into the Void itself.

“Corvo! _Corvo please_!”

Corvo lunges forward, the ringing making his ears bleed, and grabs for the Knife. The weapon lurches out of Zhukov’s grasp and jumps into Corvos hand, away from the now-cursed prisoner. Corvo tenses and waits for the worst, closing his eyes as he expects the same effect on his own hand.

But nothing happens.

No deafening roar greets his ears. No screeching metal, no pressure, no fingers turned to stone. Nothing at all greets his senses-- not even Zhukov, screaming in terror.

Corvo opens his eyes and takes a breath. In front of him stands Zhukov, frozen in his throes of agony. He is looking over Corvo's shoulder, his Void hand paused in its process of disintegration.

Next to him, hovering as if examining a statue stands the Outsider. The whale god turns a curious eye from Zhukov to Corvo who is holding the the Knife, frowning all the while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now things start to get interesting. Merry Christmas everyone!


	4. Once Gifted, Twice Cursed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to leave Tyvia.

_“You!_ ”

Corvo grits his teeth and growls, his still-hot anger making him lunge for the form of the Outsider. The Leviathan simply dissolves only to reappear behind Corvo, a chagrined look on Its face. Corvo whirls around and curses in frustration, throwing the Knife in his hands to the floor and stalking away from the other figure.

“Me,” the Outsider answers back dryly. “ _Really,_ Corvo. This _is_ one of my shrines, though I must say, it's one I've avoided entirely for millennia.”

If the being was ever capable of a sour expression, It’s wearing one now, a sneer splitting Its face as It looks at the artifact on the floor. It turns away from the Knife, focusing again on Corvo, who is pacing around the small, frozen room.

“This is bad, even for you, do you know that?” Corvo laughs out, the sound biting and lacking any mirth. He doubles back around, throwing his arm towards Zhukov. “ _Dreams?_ He was seeing fucking dreams about a knife and you didn't think to tell me about that?”

“It wasn't my place to.”

“Your _place--?”_ Corvo wipes his hand over his face, trying to stop the desperate laughter from erupting out of him. It comes out as a strangled sound and he shakes his head again. “You're a Void-damned deity who gives Its Mark to unsuspecting people because you're bored but it's _not your place_ to tell me about a knife that -- that is imbibed with ANCIENT MUSIC, or some shit, that--” he gestures towards Zhukov with a hand. “-- that, I don't know. Turns people into the Void. Okay. Yeah. You're right, it's more _entertaining_ if I just find that one out on my own.”

The Outsider watches Corvo silently, letting him work out his anger. It's the most sobered Corvo has ever seen the god, as if It too feels that Corvo is owed this, that he deserves to have this livid outburst. After a few ticks of watching Corvo’s breakdown, the Outsider takes a tentative step forward.

“No,” he starts, his omniscient voice sounding oddly small. He steps over to Zhukov and then around the Knife, giving both a wide berth. “It isn't my place, Corvo. I told you there are things here that are more powerful than even I am. Things more ancient, more unfathomable, than even the god of the Void itself.”

It stops, turning Its blackened eyes to Corvo, the gaze chilling him to his core.

“This is the Knife that made me, Corvo. It's the Knife that will end me. And for whatever reason…” the Outsider shudders, It's form dissolving and reforming, the edges blurring. “It's taken a _fancy_ for you.”

Corvo glares at the Outsider, then glares at the Knife, lying innocently on the floor.

“Zhukov said the Knife was for him.”

The Outsider shrugs. “Perhaps in a different life, in a different time. There are always many ways for events to unfold. But I cannot see those paths. The Void has its own way of doing things, after all.”

Corvo watches the Outsider carefully, thinking. His breathing has evened out, his anger subsiding down to a burning ember in his chest.

“What can you tell me about it, then? This Knife.”

“I can tell you that it's like a piece of the Void itself, and carries the will of the Void inside it. I can tell you that it's a powerful weapon that anyone who has seen or has touched the Void will be drawn to. I can tell you that it wants to leave this place just as badly as you do, Corvo.”

The being’s face then darkens, Its form shivering as it closes in on Corvo. “This is not a child's plaything, Corvo. The fate of everyone in this room will be decided by those joined blades in one way or another. So, when the time resumes and you find the Knife in your hands…”

The Outsider snaps his fingers. Instantly, the world regains color, sensation, and speed. The Knife lies on the ground near the shrine, and Zhukov grabs at his hand as it turns to stone, shrieking all the while.

And Corvo stands there, stock still, the center of it all.

_“...what will you do with it?”_

The parting words of the Outsider bouncing around in his ears, Corvo springs into action. Like a magnet, he’s drawn to the Twin-Bladed Knife and wastes no time grabbing at it and rushing around the shrine to find Zhukov in an even worse-off state. The rate of Zhukov turning to stone is speeding up, the tears running down his face as he realizes his fate.

“Corvo, please, _please,_ it hurts-- I can't--”

“What can I do? Zhukov, I don't--”

“Kill me please! I can't take this, I can't become one of those stone monsters, please!”

_“Stone monsters?”_

“CORVO!” Zhukov's eyes glisten, his voice getting more desperate as his calcification worsens, his feet and arms all transforming into black stone. Corvo’s breath quickens as his eyes dart over Zhukov's rapidly changing body.

The man shrieks. The blade in Corvo's hand thrums with energy. _It's now or never,_ whispers a small voice in Corvos mind, and he can't help but agree with it.

The dual ends of the Knife erupt out of the back of Zhukov's head, pierced through at an angle starting just at the junction of jaw and throat. The motion is fast, practiced; Corvo remembers using a similar technique to kill the High Overseer after branding him a heretic, back when he had wished to leave a parting message for the rest of the Abbey. Unlike Campbell’s face of shock and horror, though, Zhukov’s is filled with relief, the light in his eyes fading fast as the hot blood gurgles up and bubbles out of his mouth and onto the blades.

Corvo's expression is solemn as he pulls the Knife out. He didn't want it to come to this, in a small cave carved into a forgotten glacier in the frozen wastes of Tyvia. He steps back from the body, still upright and half-made of the curious Voidstone. He gingerly touches a floating piece of it before turning away, cursing.

In his hand, the Twin-Bladed Knife settles comfortably. He looks down at it, the bronze blades now blood-stained for the first time in perhaps a millennia. He tosses and flips it in his hand, testing the balance, listening to the whispers as the blades cut the air. It feels good in his hand; it's of the same weight and size as his old folding sword, but has a lightness to it, a quickness the sword lacked. A strange power emanates from the Knife, traveling up his arm, and Corvo's thoughtful frown mutates into a grimace.

It's a nice weapon.

He's tempted to spit on it.

As if he needs another gift from the Void, another thing to love to hate. The Mark, the Heart and now, the Knife. Corvo knows better than to try and give back what the Void blesses upon him, and he's sure that if the Void wants its Knife back, it'll take it when it's time to, just like it did the Heart. So, left with no other options, he turns to leave, searching for the tunnel opening that brought him to the shrine in the first place.

Corvo takes a few steps and feels the air shift. Reality itself seems to come apart at the seams, and behind him, something _horrible_ lets out a metallic shriek. Dread fills him, and he spins on his heel, turning back to the shrine.

Except the shrine is gone, a tear to the Void replacing it. Out of that jagged line between realities materializes a beast of stone, a giant thing that reaches the ceiling with its spiked head. Its body sings an eerie song as it moves, joints stiff, fingers and shoulders twitching unnaturally. Corvo finds himself swallowed in an overwhelming sensation as the rocky head turns, yellow eyes fixating on him and the Knife. It screams at him and panic cinches tight around his heart.

_Run._

The creature lunges at Corvo and Corvo wills his body to move, scrambling out of the way as he taps the Void, left hand clenching painfully. He digs deep and feels the burning electricity as he draws up an old, unpracticed ability. In his other hand, the Knife reacts accordingly, filling him with the power he so desperately seeks. When the wind blast Corvo calls for actually generates, it whips up from his hand as a roaring storm directed straight at the beast. It hits the creature with the force of a train and it shrieks, thrown backwards against the wall. He stands there, looking at his hand in awe, dazed by the power he just manifested.

His windblast has somehow _doubled_ in intensity since the last time he used that power. Something of that strength should have left him completely drained, but he's still standing, with plenty of stamina to stage another attack or an escape. In the grip of his right hand, the Knife sings, chittering as if in excitement… or even, _amusement._

Corvo doesn't have time to think too hard on the matter. The monster recovers fast, already standing straight again, searching the room for Corvo. In the lantern glow, he watches the beast's body flake and scrape against itself. He tries backing up slowly and manages to blink towards the tunnel, getting as much distance from the creature as possible. When he looks back to search the room, he finds the thing gone.

Corvo catches his breath just to lose it again as a blow blindsides him from behind. His body rolls like a doll as the pain spreads hot across his body, burning like a brand from where the beast struck. For a terrified moment, he can't help but wonder how easily this thing could kill him. It is unlike anything he's ever faced before, and the very real fact is that it could _definitely_ end his life instantly.

As Corvo scrambles to his feet, he decides then and there that he simply won’t make himself that easy to defeat. He sits up, watching as the creature stalks closer, searching for the artifact. Its arm reaches out for the blade, shrieking like a banshee.

Corvo reacts instinctively, bringing the Knife up to block the grab. The Knife responds as well, and suddenly a screaming blast of Void erupts from between the two blades, slamming into the creature. The force of it shatters the thing's arm, Void scattering into the air in a flurry of shards. The creature stumbles backwards and Corvo pulls himself up, the power making his whole arm vibrate. Whatever the Knife just did, it hurt that thing-- which means, hopefully, it can also kill it.

Before it can recover, Corvo gathers more energy and strikes at the beast again, aiming for the head.

The force of impact of Void on Void causes a resounding _crack_ to fill the small room, shaking the cavern's very foundation. The monster's head splits open, the same light from its eyes pouring out from within its skull. The light almost blinds Corvo but he doesn't let it slow him down -- he rushes at the creature, shoving the blade deep in the crack and twisting. The thing screams under the attack, the noise deafening as bronze blades scrape loudly against the obsidian body. When it keeps struggling, he shoves the Knife in deeper, gritting his teeth, praying to the Void that it's enough when finally, _finally_ the creature stills and then bursts, the pieces of Void dissipating out of this reality as it dies.

All at once, the room is quiet again, save for Corvo's heavy panting. The silence is suffocating and Corvo coughs, filling the area with sound. He steadies himself, looking around, anticipating something else, but nothing follows the first creature. It is just him in the small cavern now: him, and the half-statue of Zhukov's body. In his hand, the Knife is quiet, still, and unassuming once again.

Corvo takes a deep breath and lets it out as a broken laugh.

“Stone monsters. Right. Thanks for the heads up.”

\------

The walk back through the tunnels is a silent, if not hurried, affair. Despite the stillness, Corvo's mind is ablaze, trying to process what just happened, as well as what to do next. He had gone into a tunnel to find a vein of salt, had instead found an ancient Void weapon that made the damned Outsider, and then had to fight something _from_ the Void that tried to stop him from taking the Knife away from its resting place. Oh, and he had to kill Zhukov, who had tried to touch the Knife and instead got turned to stone.

And now he was going back up to the surface with a bloodied weapon on his belt and zero explanation, facing the guards and all the rest of Utyrka. Then, he has do his best to sneak out and get away from the compound entirely.

Yeah. It’s been one Void-damned day.

And yet it still feels like everything is going the way it was always meant to go. Corvo has all the knowledge he needs to escape. He has his Mark. He has the Knife, which can keep his powers regularly tapped to the energy of the Void.

It's now or never. He won't get another chance at this.

“Corvo! You and Zhukov were gone for a long while!”

Stine is waiting there like she said she would be, as Corvo crawls out of the small crack hours later. “We were getting worried-- where is Zhukov? Did something happen?”

Corvo coughs, feeling the fine particles of salt tickle his throat as he crawls out. He straightens up, doing his best to hide the knife with his leg. “Apologies, guards. I didn't mean to keep you waiting. You won't have to worry about it happening ever again.”

Stine starts to ask a question, her mouth opening, her brow furrowing as Corvo lifts his left hand and clenches his fist tight. As he pulls down his burning hand, time halts, suspending around him. He looks between Stine and the other guard-- Pierce, he thinks his name was-- as they stand still, the color gone from them. He casually walks around them, pulling off a few keys and grabbing whatever pouches they are carrying. He considers the pistol on Pierce’s hip, but moves on. Even with the Knife powering him, he can only stop time for so long, and he needs as much of a head start as he can get.

Hurriedly, he rushes up the tunnels, following the trail of lights up to the dark, cold surface. He lets go of his hold on time and the color and sound returns, his footsteps echoing as he rushes through the tunnel. Behind him, he can faintly hear Stine exclaim, most assuredly shocked by Corvo's sudden and unexplained disappearance. He gives himself about five minutes before they realize their guard keys are gone and hopefully, by then, it'll be enough time for him to leave and escape.

What was thirty minutes of careful walking when Corvo, Zhukov and the guards went down into the mines turns into about seven minutes of running, coupled with so many fast blinks Corvo's head is aching by the time he reaches the surface. Whale oil light streams into the opening, beckoning him, and he stretches his blink one more time, egged on by the escape from the mines.

The cold is a blessed feeling on his hot face, the brisk wind a breath of fresh air after being underground for so long. It is all too quickly far too cold, and he wraps his scarf closer to his face, pulling on thick gloves as he clenches his fist again, willing his body to rush forward once more, impossibly fast. The world above is as dark as ever, and it is all too easy to climb onto a roof and sit, hidden, catching his breath.

His body is vibrating from head to toe. It's almost nostalgic, how easily Corvo slips back into the role he knows best; an infiltrator, a ghost, a shadow of a man. He'll leave this compound and they'll never know where he was, or even how he did it.

Freedom from prison will never taste sweeter.

Quietly, he wraps his coat around himself tighter, covering his skin as much as possible against the oppressive cold. He knows it won't take long for Stine to reappear, and he still wants to gain some distance, as well as gather information while he still can.

First, he heads for the nearest watchtower. Blinking up to the top of it is a practiced move; in seconds, the light is down, and the guards below don't seem to think it's anything more than a simple whale oil shortage. He pulls the Void over his eyes and watches them, his vision cutting through the darkness far better than any human’s could. Silently, he slips down behind them, taking money and keys, sneaking along before the guards are ever the wiser.

There is a strange rush of power involved with being able to move and steal without ever being caught. It floods Corvo in a way it hasn't in years; all the old tricks come back to him, and soon he’s moving through the hallways as if on air, hiding and climbing, as quiet as a mouse.

He overhears the guards talking about the next shipment run, how they hope the salt mines get going again. They unknowingly tell Corvo where he can find the storage keys, where they keep equipment locked up. It's all too easy to stop time, choke each man out, just to watch them both drop simultaneously as the seconds resume. He collects anything of value -- food, extra clothing, maps, documents, money, keys -- and moves on, not minding who sees or finds the sleeping bodies left behind.

Corvo is about halfway through the compound, blinking from rooftop to rooftop, when he hears the familiar whisper of guards exchanging his name. They keep their voices low and fast, as if they are the ones being stealthy in this situation. So, they knew he was missing now, and word was spreading through the compound to keep an eye out for him; that’s fine. He’ll let them spread out and search for him. Corvo knows this is simply a ripple in the waters that will soon calm and freeze over. He can wait; he's been patient enough. Once the alert goes down, he'll slip by and gain his freedom, and it'll be a Tyvian legend passed down for generations.

Or, they'll presume him dead out in the deep snow and unrelenting wilderness. Corvo is personally hoping for the latter.

“Where do you think you're sneaking off to, Serkonan?”

Corvo doesn't move, doesn't turn from his current rooftop perch. He vaguely knows the voice of the person behind him. In his memory, that voice is holding him down while he's helpless, punching his face to a bloody mess.

On his hip, Corvo feels the Knife shudder and he puts a hand on the hilt to still it. Behind him, the sound of footsteps grows louder as the man behind him closes in.

“Word is that the guards are looking for you, say you disappeared almost magically. Guess they didn't think to look up.”

Corvo listens to Kushner's voice, keeping tabs on his footfalls. Despite the Tyvian being the only one talking, he can hear the breathing of two other men. They are trying to be quiet and light, he can tell, but they are still too loud; they are not men built for stealth.

As they near, Corvo weighs his options. He could easily blink to the next building where they were unable to give chase. Or he could stop time, bringing all the men to their knees in an instant.

“Is this what they teach the boys in Serkonos? How to sneak around and think they have what it takes to break out of prison?”

Kushner closes in. The Knife thrums.

Under his scarf, Corvo smiles.

The other two men leap at Corvo just as he blinks, causing them to stumble and miss their target. Corvo reappears in front of Kushner, eyes glinting. He delights in the scared look on the Tyvian’s face for just a moment before possessing Kushner and disappearing completely.

 _“Let me show you what I've learned, you sad Tyvian man,”_ Corvo whispers in his mind before seizing control of the other prisoner’s body. He can feel Kushner fighting against Corvo's intrusion, the fear clouding his brain, but Corvo pays him no mind and instead turns Kushner's body towards his comrades.

They look around, nervous. They ask if Kushner saw where Corvo went, how someone could disappear like that. Their faces turn to fear as Kushner grabs one of them. Those strong hands easily push the other man off the roof, the yelling echoing throughout the compound as he falls. The yelling abruptly stops as the man's body hits the ground, replaced by the startled sounds of guards below. Corvo then turns Kushner's body towards his other partner, grabbing the man and wrestling him down. The other prisoner starts to yell and through Kushner's ears, Corvo can hear the sound of guards coming.

Corvo wraps the man's possessed hands around his friend’s throat and squeezes, the yelling cut off with a gurgle as he chokes. An afterthought of pain reaches Corvo through the haze of possession; the other man is clawing at Kushner’s hands, deep enough to bruise, even through the thick gloves keeping out the cold. In the back of his thoughts, gaining in strength, Corvo can hear Kushner yelling, pleading, trying desperately to push Corvo out of his mind. Corvo hangs on to Kushner's body as long as the Void allows; finally, though, the pressure is too much and he lets go, separating forcefully from Kushner's form. The other man gasps, tears welling in his eyes as he looks down at the lifeless form of his friend. The shouts of the guards grows ever louder as they close in on the rooftop.

Kushner turns to Corvo, eyes wet and red and full of rage.

“YOU-- YOU SOUTHERN BASTARD. WHAT DID YOU DO?”

Corvo hangs on the edge of the rooftop, eyes burning bright, the shadow of a laugh coloring his words.

“Something that nobody will believe when you tell them what really happened. See you in the Void, Kushner.”

And with that, Corvo lifts his hand and blinks off, leaving Kushner howling into the wind, the guards swarming to his position. With most of the excitement now behind him, Corvo has a clear path to leave, completely unheeded.

He meets no resistance as he slips into the guard quarters. He doesn't see a single soul as he grabs food, money, a list of the day’s shipment rotation, and a guard’s coat from the main outpost. Nobody is around as he walks casually down to the underground railcar, waiting at the station, right on time. There's none who is the wiser when he lets them know there was an incident and he needs to head into town to let the elite guard know about a certain inmate. Not a soul questions him as he completes the shipment process for the day like any guard would. And his alibi checks out as an alarm blares over the speakers, alerting of Kushner's state and how he's been taken into high security custody.

“Man, that must have been quite the incident,” the conductor says casually as Corvo climbs aboard and the railcar shifts under his weight.

“Guess he thought he could escape, and his friends tried stopping him. He killed them with his bare hands. Poor bastards.”

The conductor whistles, long and low.

“The weather must be getting to them. Eternal darkness makes anyone get the crazies after a while.”

“Yeah,” Corvo says, settling in, a small chuckle leaving him. The Knife vibrates on his hip, humming with their shared power. “Seems like we get more and more of them every winter.”

“A shame, really. Nobody gets out of Utyrka and doesn't die trying.”

Corvo looks back as the car screeches to life, the electricity making the rails spark and jump as they head away from the dark Utyrka station. He's glad the scarf wrapped around his face hides his smile so well.

“Yeah. It's too bad. Just think of how excellent a story it would have made.”

The conductor laughs and Corvo settles in to rest. He thanks the driver as he gets off at the next stop, heading into the sleepy Tyvian town.

He escaped the inescapable prison. And nobody was ever the wiser.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, finally we come to this. Next stop: back to Dunwall.


	5. A Day in the Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It ain't easy being Empress.

“I am Emily Drexel Lela Kaldwin, First of her name, Empress of the Isles.”

Emily says the words and her image in the mirror repeats it back to her, eyes hard, dark hair pulled up. She tries to stare herself down, searching the eyes staring back, looking for something that isn't there, trying to feel like the ruler she is supposed to be. Something feels off, feels missing, and she can't tell what it is. Maybe it's because she's starting to see her mother in her features, a woman she can never be and only hope to live up to. Or maybe it's those dark eyes, the ones from her father, tired but lit with an inner fire. She emulates him now, brows furrowing, her lips thinning. Tough. Honorable. She squares her slim shoulders, lifts her chin, and tries again.

_“I_ am Emily Drexel Lela Kaldwin, First of her name, Empress of the Isles.”

In the mirror, she watches Callista walk about behind her, tutting and doting. She smooths down the shoulders of Emily's coat, straightening them.

“Emily, you'll be fine. You only repeat when you're nervous. _Relax.”_  Emily deflates under Callista’s words, only to feel the woman put a sharp hand in the small of her back. Emily sucks in a breath, immediately straightening back up.

“Not _that_ much, Emily. _Spirits.”_ Callista rolls her eyes and moves to the other side of the room, out of the frame of Emily's mirror. Emily scowls, a more natural look for her, and rolls her shoulders. Callista’s worried insistence always leaves the teen itching to get away.

“I'm _fine,_ Callista. I've done this plenty of times. And I'm fifteen now, I'm not some small child that needs to be told on posture.”

“Yes, yes, my apologies, fifteen is _such_ a magical age for a young lady to become a woman.”

Callista’s protective sarcasm is palpable as she cleans up around Emily's chambers. Outfits are strewn across her bed, all rejected by Emily for being too formal or not the right fit. Callista picks up a slim dress, clicking her tongue.

“But for someone so eager to prove her maturity, you surely don't want to dress like a proper lady.”

Emily turns to Callista, glowering. “Wyman gave me this tunic and vest, and I happen to enjoy wearing the royal colors as a jacket and pants. It's comfortable. And an Empress should be comfortable.”

“An Empress should look her best to set an example to her people. And there is nothing _comfortable_ about running a kingdom.”

Emily fixes the buttons of her coat in the mirror, adjusting the collar on the dark blue jacket. It is rimmed with gold trimmings the crest of the Kaldwin house artistically interlaced in the weave. The vest underneath is a deep emerald hue, a subtle color that was a trademark of the Morley Noble houses. She flushes, thinking of when Wyman brought it for her as a gift.

“An Empress needs to be prepared for anything, Callista. What if I need to run off and escape Dunwall from the rooftops, one day? I can't do that in a dress and heels.”

Callista huffs, lips pursing.

“I see the wild ideas your old _bodyguard_ put into your head still influence your imagination in all the worst ways.”

Emily scowls, her eyes flashing as she looks at Callista.

“They aren't wild ideas. It's survival. Maybe if Corvo had taught my mother more-- maybe if she wasn't forced to wear her hair up and be doted on, she could have escaped. Maybe an Empress that can walk on rooftops and swordfight and is allowed to get her hands dirty is less likely to be a _dead_ Empress!”

Emily's voice grows with each word, until she's practically shouting at an unsuspecting Callista. A silence falls between them and Emily sniffs, turning back to the mirror. She is an Empress. Empresses aren't weak. They don't cry. She gazes into those hard black eyes, looks for the fire in them that her father gave her.

Her heart beats painfully in her chest at the thought of him. She tries not to think of how it’s been over 8 months since his last letter, or how it’s been four years since she’s last seen him.

“Emily, I'm-- You know I don't mean that.”

Callista’s voice is soft, and Emily hates it. She deflates all the same; this is a common point of contention between her and Callista. It's pointless to argue it again, not now.

“It's okay. I know you didn't. I'm sorry for yelling.”

“I'm sorry too. My uncle is still giving you lessons, is he not?”

Emily nods. Royal Protector Curnow, hand-picked by Corvo himself to supercede him, gives Emily self-protection lessons twice a week. She's becoming very proficient with the sword; he's still terrible at stealth training. He still always bests her at the blade, she still finds him in every hiding crevice.

It's nice and it's educational, but it's not _Corvo._

She wonders, not for the first time, if she was right in sending him to Tyvia. How would things be different, if he was here? Would anything change? Would she still feel trapped and doted on? Would she still have the same court, or would someone else have replaced them?

Maybe if Corvo hadn't killed so many people he'd still be here, talking with her on how they are both mutually bored with nobles and stately matters, maybe both dreaming of rooftops and sword fights, and he'd have told her more stories by the fire.

Eight months. It's been eight months and not a single letter. Not a single word. She tries to loosen the vice in her chest.

“We should get going,” Callista says carefully, tentatively. Emily swallows, looking away from the eyes in the mirror that haunt her. She nods at Callista, trying to hide the shine in her eyes.

She gets a grip on her emotions. Empresses do not cry, after all.

\------

“Alexi is coming with us today, into the city?”

“Yes. As you know, my uncle will be there until you leave the Draper's Ward; from there he will be making the rounds and checking in with Ramsey and the City Watch. Ms. Mayhew will be with you the whole time, though, since her training is going so well. You'll be in good hands for the duration of the ride.”

Callista and Geoff walk with Emily down to the carriages, waiting just outside Dunwall Tower. They had discussed taking the railcar, but Emily insisted on the road. It helps her get a better view of the city and a better look at how much Dunwall is really recovering. By this point, the plague is eradicated, with Sokolov and Joplin’s elixir eliminating the spread of the illness, even in those entering the so-called hemorrhaging “weeper” stage of the disease. Now, her biggest project is reclaiming the Rudshore District, which still remains partially flooded and filled with far too many bloated bodies.

Today, however, Emily is heading to the Draper’s Ward. Alexi and Curnow both are going as a precaution; gangs are still an issue, and Emily wants to understand what it is that keeps these groups in power. Her mother had once told her that gangs arose from a discrepancy between upper and lower classes, where those who didn't believe in the authoritative power would try to make their own. If that's the case, then she needs to restore faith in her position as Empress and in the crown. The people deserve to see their ruler is no longer a helpless, weeping child.

They near the carriage, ready and waiting to carry her through the cobbled roads of Dunwall. Standing tall by the door is Alexi Mayhew, red hair pleated neatly behind her head, face professional and stern. As Emily nears, their gazes meet for just a moment and Emily can see Alexi’s eyes shine. Emily glances away, biting down on her smile. Alexi has only been working in Dunwall with the City Watch for the past year, but she’s quickly risen through the ranks, earning an apprenticeship under Curnow.

She also happens to be Emily's best friend, closest confidant, and hopefully, one day, her future Royal Protector.

“Miss Mayhew,” Emily addresses her, all formal politeness. 

“Your Majesty,” Alexi shoots back, the hint of a smile coloring her words as she slightly bows her head. “Royal Protector. We are ready to head out, if you are.”

Emily nods, and Callista hastily shoves a folder full of notes into the young Empress’s hands. She sighs, but doesn't stop Callista from quickly going over the itinerary one more time.

“There will be three major stops and two road checks. Be on your guard, especially at _this_ one. They aren't suspicious, but you will need to keep an eye out for the Hatter's Gang--they still aren't happy about how they've lost power to everything that happened after the plague. Also check _here,_ because--”

“Don't worry, Callista. We'll take it from here.” Geoff puts a hand on her shoulder to calm her rambling, and she stills, turning a protective eye on Emily. Emily smiles back, sheepish. Sometimes she wonders if she doesn't secretly have two royal protectors, both with the family name Curnow.

It is annoying at times, the doting and nagging she puts up with under Callista. But other times, Emily looks at her and sees the woman who had clawed at Havelock’s face until it bled for daring to touch Emily, screaming at him and cursing him for poisoning Corvo. It had taken three grown men to subdue her, and even then she yelled and screamed, as the boat left and dragged Emily off to the lighthouse far away from the Hounds Pit Pub.

_Yes,_ she thinks, _Callista has every right to be protective._

That didn't stop it from being a smothering sort of affection at times, but Callista is justified in it all the same.

“I'll be fine, Callista. I promise.”

Emily’s words make Callista cast one final, worried glance between her uncle and the Empress. Finally she sighs, standing down.

“Of course, Emily. It’s just... my nerves getting the better of me. You keep her safe, uncle; Mayhew.”

They both affirm that they will. The cabin door shuts and Geoff asks the driver to head them off, moving downtown and following the Wrenhaven River. The Royal Protector takes his spot next to the driver, watching the road for potential threats, while Emily and Alexi sit in the carriage box itself. As soon as the tower is out of sight, Emily lets out a huge sigh, sagging into the carriage seat. Alexi smirks at her, all too knowing.

“Long day with Callista already?”

“She means well. I _know_ she means well. It's just...”

“She needs to back off?” Alexi supplies, eyebrow raising, blue eyes sparkling.

“Yes!” Emily blurts out, not realizing how loud she's being until she sees Curnow glance back at her. “Sorry, I'm just…” she sighs and flicks through all the pages in the folder Callista had given her.

“I have speeches prepared, and I don't even know what they say. And what will people in the Draper's Ward care to hear about, anyway? They don't wanna know I'm proud of them, do they? They want me to empathize, not sympathize. Just…” Emily scans the words, curling her nose in disgust.

_“With the passing of the rat plague, I, Emily Kaldwin, will personally make sure that your jobs will be restored, your houses fixed, your roads repaired…_ and on and on.” Emily rolls her eyes. “It feels so fake. I don't want to be fake to these people, they hardly like me as it is.”

“It's important to instill hope in the masses, though, Empress,” Curnow provides from the front seat.

“Not if it's empty promises,” she shoots back. “I don't just wanna be hopeful,” she says, her eyes glittering. “My mother was hopeful. I wanna be _revolutionary.”_

“You should tell them you'll bring back the Masked Vigilante, that he'll strike down their foes in the night.”

“Alexi, please.”

Emily knows Alexi is joking, but there is a half-truth to her words. Corvo had a huge impact on the city of Dunwall, his masked face reaching a sort of folklore status among the common people. Mothers now tell their children to behave, lest the masked man come to steal them away, pulling them through open windows and down into the sewers, never to be seen again. Nobles still fear him and the commoners still stand in awe of his memory. They claim he still haunts the city on clear nights, leaping from rooftop to rooftop.

All of it, however, is tall tales and superstition. Emily knows where the real masked man is, and that he is far away from the buildings of Dunwall.

“We both know that _that_ is as hollow a promise as reinstating their roads and homes quickly and without a tax hike. Besides, the people need their _Empress,_ not a supernatural made-up hero.”

“Some could say they need both,” Alexi provides thoughtfully. “The people like to think they too have a chance to rise above and make a difference.”

Emily chews on her cheek, looking out the window. The road passes quickly, the heavy horses pulling them along at speed. The more run-down the buildings become, the closer they get to their destination.

Ahead of them, the former glory of the Draper's Ward looms. Once makers of fine textiles, the plague decimated the area and crime ran rampant as folks struggled to make a living. The Hatter's Gang is gaining in power and popularity, and disdain for the crown is growing amongst the people here. Emily has a sneaking suspicion that it's no coincidence that the lack of support for the state is also highest among those showing support for the gang. If the city is to grow and move on, she would have to change that.

As they enter the Ward, the crowds gather and both Alexi and Curnow drop their casual pretenses. It isn't common knowledge that the Empress is paying a visit, but her entrance and the guard preceding it is never subtle. That is fine by her; she wanted her people to know she was here. If Emily felt any fear of the crowd coming out to see her, she does not show it.

An Empress does not feel fear of her people, but instead _for_ her people. They will see no weakness in her today.

The crowd grows thicker. Emily can hear the people outside, their whispers of awe and disdain. Alexi tenses, hand on her sword, as someone bangs at the side of the carriage, demanding to see the Empress. Emily watches the people closely, unseen, her heart burning. In her right hand, she clutches the speech prepared for her.

“How much further until we get to the meeting place?” She asks, and Curnow turns back, meeting her eye.

“The street is too clogged and some folks are trying to spook the horses. I'll try and get them to move so we can stay on schedule--”

“No. No, it's fine.” It is not fear she feels as she crushes the note in her palm. “It's fine. It's--”

Emily and Alexi lock eyes for just a moment. She sees her friend, her future protector’s eyes go wide as she realizes what Emily is thinking.

“Em--”

But it's too late. The young Empress's heart is already too full to bursting, her skin crawling as she sits by in the carriage. The sounds of the people grow loud for a moment as she swings the carriage door open and steps out. She hears a surprised yelp from Alexi, a shout from Curnow and then she's gone, scrambling to the top of the carriage box, steadying herself as she stands.

She looks out over the ruckus, the crowd much larger and louder than she had realized. Her heart pounds in her ears, her dark eyes burning. She opens her palm to the air, letting the pre-recorded speech slip into the wind.

“People of Draper's Ward!” She begins, her voice powerful and unwavering. The sounds of the people grow quiet as she draws attention to herself. “I am Emily Kaldwin, your Empress! I am here because I have heard your cries -- your _pleas --_ for a better life!”

The crowd ripples, and she can feel the carriage move as Geoff and Alexi position themselves. The quiet that settles as she speaks is deafening. She breathes, feeling empowered, her heart fluttering fast inside her tight chest.

“My mother wanted the best for you. But her heart is here no longer; mine beats in her stead. She was of royal blood, but my father--he was low born. Just like you, like ALL of you. He is a man who is proof that the status of birth holds no power over the determination of the individual!”

The rabble grows; the ripple spreads. She doesn't know what she's saying anymore, or if these people even believe her. But she cannot lie. She owes the people of Dunwall so much more than that.

“You all feel as if you have been tossed aside; used by the crown to further the interests of those above you. I am here to tell you-- You are not pawns! You are all equally powerful, you too are agents of change! One man may have killed an empress, but another changed the whole city! I am here to restore that city left in his path of vengeance! I have ended the plague, I _will_ restore the Flooded District, and the Draper's Ward _will_ return to its former glory!”

The crowd grows again, enthralled and angered, roiling under Emily's words. Cheers and jeers erupt, equal parts hatred and admiration and Emily’s body is ignited. She breathes in the passion of her people and for a moment -- for a single second in time -- she understands what it is that her mother loved so much about this city and its people.

Then the gunshot goes off.

Alexi cries out and Emily sidesteps instinctively. She isn't fast enough; a burning pain erupts in her left thigh and she gasps. Adrenaline pumps through her, dulling the pain, but it doesn't stop her from staring down at the dark stain spreading rapidly under her slacks. She watches it with wide eyes, her heart still alive and burning.

Like a volcano, the crowd rumbles and erupts from under and around the carriage. People are screaming and scattering, chaos breaking out in the streets from the sound of gunfire. Emily is vaguely aware of Alexi pulling her into the carriage, out of harm's way, as the shouts of the dissenters grow louder. Another gunshot round clips the carriage door where Alexi’s hand had been just moments before.

Emily's head swims as she sits down on the leather seat. Laughter bubbles up, unasked and uncalled for. She should be worried about her leg, about the damage she's accrued, but all she can think is how angry Callista will be, seeing Emily in such a state.

She wonders what Corvo would think; would he have been happy, or proud of his daughter’s recklessness? Or would he be upset with her almost getting killed? She laughs again, meeting Alexi’s stricken face as she hurriedly pulls out wrappings and a bottle of elixir. Outside, Curnow is urging the driver on, but the horses are still too panicked, the crowd too thick. Another gunshot; this time it’s Curnow, downing a violent protester from climbing aboard.

Emily inhales, swallows, trying to focus not on the pain but instead on the shaking hands holding her thigh. Alexi is shuddering as she dresses the wound, cleaning the shot and pouring elixir over the bullet holes. Emily blinks to clear her eyes of tears and puts her hand on Alexi's.

The Empress realizes she has no idea when she started crying.

“I'm sorry Empress, I failed you, I didn't see the attack and--”

“It's okay, Mayhew. Steady hands.” Emily feels oddly calm, and wonders if this was something Corvo experienced as well, in times of high stress. “You haven't failed me yet.”

Alexi meets Emily's eyes and swallows hard. Her face is shining with sweat, her hair in a disarray. But her hands go steady as they wrap the wound. She nods her head.

“Yes, Empress. Emily. I've got you.”

It is then that there is a yell outside, followed by the sound of shattering glass. They look down, both of them following the grenade now rolling placidly along the carriage box floor.

They both eye it for a moment before Alexi is flying to wrap her fingers around the small bomb, not counting on wasted seconds. She screams of a live grenade before throwing it back out the window, into the crowd and out of the carriage. Alexi then grabs Emily, throwing her down on the seat, covering her body.

For a terrifying two seconds, nothing happens. Then--

The shock of the explosion rocks the carriage. People scream and scatter. The horses rear and shriek, spooking and thrashing and finally moving. Emily can hear Curnow shout as the carriage spins on its wheels, finally plowing out of the chaos of Draper's Ward.

“Empress! Empress are you alright?” Alexi is gripping her tightly, painfully, and now Curnow is there in the cabin, looking over her leg and immediately assessing damage. He tells the driver to head back to the tower, to get Emily to Sokolov, that she's lost a lot of blood.

Emily’s heart pumps loudly in her ears, pulsing blood out of her wound, but still she breathes. She breathes and she breathes and she breathes and she laughs as she breathes again.

“Yes,” she finally answers, arms shaking and body on fire. “Yes, I've never felt more alright in my entire life.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finishing up the final chapters of this fic and I just need to remind everyone that [windsweptfic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/windsweptfic/pseuds/windsweptfic) is the best beta. I don't think I'd have gotten as far as I have without them cheering me on through the toughest of chapters. Also have a Happy New Years! For those who celebrate it.


	6. The Raven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home is where the Heart is.

“What is it?” Emily asks Corvo, so many years ago.

She is still only ten, still looking for ways to get over Mother's death, still trying not to have bad dreams at night. She still has Corvo, though, and the strange markings now on the back of his left hand.

That left hand is now held out to her, palm up, cupped as if holding something. She frowns, holding his hand in hers.

“Do you see anything?” He asks. His voice is still rough around the edges, no longer smooth and gentle like it had been, before...before _everything_ happened earlier that year. He still keeps his sentences short, coughing at times, as if to clear his throat of something much worse than phlegm.

“No, I don't. Just your hand. Am I _supposed_ to see something?”

He fidgets, a pained frown passing over his lips. He still looks too tired, too skinny, too much like he's not _himself._ Emily looks at him worriedly, her young face watching his features carefully.

He pulls her into his lap with his free arm and she snuggles close. Without his large coat, his frame is much smaller, but still just as warm. His left hand gently squeezes around the air, and Emily watches the motion carefully.

“Do you _hear_ anything?” he asks then.

Emily frowns, nestling closer. “No, I don't.”

“Close your eyes,” he rasps out. “And concentrate.”

She does as she's told. Her eyes slide shut and she breathes deep, straining her ears. She doesn't know what she should be listening for, but she concentrates as hard as can all the same.

The whisper brushes against her ears like a ghost, a shadow of a heartbeat. There is a breathy sigh, and the soft murmur of the words _“my sweet Emily.”_ She gasps, her eyes flying open, and the sounds stop, the voice fleeing. She grabs at Corvo, searching for a lifeline, her small heart pounding painfully against her chest.

“Corvo, I heard something,” she gasps out, excited and terrified all at the same time. “Corvo it - it was _Mother!”_

He just nods, pulling her in closer.

“You can't see it, but I'm...I'm holding her heart in my hands.”

It's such a morbid thing to be telling a child, that their _mother's heart_ is mere inches away, unseen. But Emily has already seen more than her young eyes know what to do with. She had seen her mother stabbed by people who seemed to blink in and out of existence. She had heard the cries of whales and the whispers of a far-off place through a piece of warm whalebone. She had watched Corvo move magically through the shadows, wearing a mask of death to hide his face.

So when he tells Emily that her mother's heart is in his hand, she does not call him crazy. Corvo isn't crazy when it comes to things like this. He has never lied to her.

She nods, then, believing every word.

“Does she talk to you?” Emily asks curiously, voice low. Nobody else is there in the room, but still she doesn't want this secret to leave them.

He nods again, watching his hand with an odd look on his face. “She does, sometimes. She tells me the secrets of men. She... she's sad. She misses us and she wishes she could hold you one last time.”

“Why is she sad?” Her mother had always told her to not fear death, that it was just another journey, and nothing bad would truly come of it.

“Because a part of her is trapped in this heart. And I have no way of freeing her.”

“At least she's with you,” Emily supplies. “I don't have anything of Mother’s. I…”

He squeezes her close, and puts the invisible heart back into his vest pocket, next to his own. She places a hand there, listening and feeling for an alien beat, something aside from Corvo's own powerful heart. He lifts Emily then, and walks out the door with her in his arms.

“Where are we going, Corvo?” She asks.

“It's a secret that I have to show you,” he says. Even under the grating whisper his voice had been reduced to, she can hear the hint of amusement.

It's late, and most of the maids and workers are already in bed. When he's sure nobody is around, he clenches his fist and Emily feels her stomach drop as they blink down the hallway. She gasps and giggles, the action leaving her light and dizzy. Corvo grins down at her, a rare sparkle shining in his eyes.

Finally, he reaches the end of the hall. There is nothing here but a fireplace next to a bookshelf. On the wall next to the fireplace, a light hangs. He reaches up and pulls it down; from inside the wall she can hear the loud sound of grinding stone. Her eyes go wide as the fireplace opens up; it's just big enough for her and Corvo to crawl through. He carries her in and sets her down and she looks around, finding a pistol, a few coins, and an audiograph.

“Corvo,” she breathes excitedly. “Is this a secret room?”

“It is,” he affirms, hands in his pockets. There is a button on the wall; he presses it and the hidden door slides shut again. “It has something special in here, something that Jessamine left just for you.”

Her breath catches. A card sits in the audiograph player. Corvo eyes the player sadly, blinking away tears as he swallows. Emily looks curiously between the card and her father.

“Go on,” he rasps out, voice broken from trauma and emotion. “Play it.”

She does.

Jessamine's voice fills the small room, directing her words straight to Emily. Emily's throat catches and she hangs onto every word, every syllable. By the time the audiograph ends, the tears are leaking out, silently falling from her lashes onto the floor.

Corvo reaches over and takes the card out of the player and hands it to her. She holds it gently in her hands: her own piece of Jessamine's unseen heart.

Corvo kneels down and lifts her chin, his burning gaze meeting her wet eyes.

“Your mother wanted you to have this audiograph, so that you never forgot her voice, or how much she loved you. I found it here when I returned to the Tower; I know you won't lose it, that it's safe in your hands.”

She nods, biting at her lip. She holds it to her chest, imagining that it could beat against her heart, too.

After that, they talk about Jessamine in that small room for a while. Emily can't recall later how long they were there, but she's sure Corvo took her back to her room when she was too tired to keep talking.

Later that same week, she finds Corvo out at the gazebo, his eyes far away and just a little bit lost. She asks what's wrong, and he simply replies that “it” is gone. She holds his hand in hers and he grips it tight, as if in fear of her disappearing too.

She asks him then if he wants to listen to the audiograph card, just one last time. He nods, not trusting his ruined voice, and they listen to Jessamine's voice together, the final piece of her heart they both still have.

_\------_

Emily toys with that audiograph card now, her fingers running over the familiar notches. Tutting loudly, Callista drops the latest issues of the Dunwall Courier onto Emily's bed, where the young Empress eyes them solemnly.

She notes the front page news on each issue: it's all about the Draper's Ward incident. Someone even managed to get a silvergraph image of the speech, where Emily recklessly stood on the roof of her carriage and spoke to the masses. The large words of “ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT IN DRAPER'S WARD” glare up at her from where she sits on the edge of the bed.

“You realize this is the only thing anyone is talking about?” Callista paces the royal quarters, face red and fuming.

Another paper is in her hands and she tosses it in the pile with the rest. Unlike the others, this one's cover features Corvo, his dark eyes and curtain of hair making him look more like a villain than the sweet, laughing man that Emily knew.

“Nobody will shut up about it! They all want to know how it is that Royal Protector Corvo Attano is the father of the Empress!”

“It's not like I told them he was my father,” Emily argues, weary and tired. She winces and sucks in a breath as Sokolov removes the old bandage wrapping her injured leg. “I just said my father was low born. I wanted them to feel like they too could make a difference. That they could be greater than their lot in life.”

Callista sputters, her hands going skywards. “Of course, because it's not like people won't immediately _insinuate…_ like there wasn't enough rumors about Corvo out there _already--”_

“Oh come off it,” Sokolov grumbles, gruff and weary. “Let the people have their drama-- it won't change anything because half the city already believed the gossip that'd been floating around for years. If anything, this should only cause Emily's popularity to skyrocket.”

“It's better than the people worrying about the flooded district still being flooded, or about rising tax prices to pay for damages, or about the gangs still running rampant.” This reply comes from Geoff Curnow, who sits at the far end of the room.

If Callista is the passionate and doting Curnow, then Geoff is the relaxed and controlled Curnow. He is calm from where he watches, more aware than he ever lets on. Emily always appreciates how quiet and gentle he is, even if he has sure and steady hands in combat.

“And it _has_ been good press for Emily,” he continues. “Sympathy for the Empress after being attacked has boosted her ratings, and a good chunk of the Draper's Ward civilians offered their support.”

“It's fine, Callista,” Emily adds to Curnow's assessment. “But if anyone asks, I won't deny Corvo is my father. The public likes him more than the press does. They always did, even before the plague.”

“Any publicity is good publicity,” Sokolov grunts as he cleans Emily's wound. He turns a beady eye to Callista. “Now, if you don't mind, can I finish my job without you bursting in with the day's news? Out with you! I need a sterile environment for my patient.”

Sokolov makes to shoo the Curnows out of the room; both Callista and her uncle exchange glances before looking to Emily. Emily nods back to them, stuck on her bed.

“I'll be fine. It's just a routine bandage check after all.”

Callista makes to protest, but her uncle gently leads her out of the room to give Emily some privacy with her physician. “I'll be right outside the door if you need me, Empress.”

“Thank you, Curnow.”

Once the door quietly closes, Sokolov grunts and goes to work.

“Spirits, they are nosey. Tell that woman to shove off for me, would you?”

“She means well. She just worries too much. She was there that day in the pub, just as you were.”

He growls out his affirmation, cleaning the wound on her thigh. The bullet hadn't gone in clean; instead it had shattered on impact, leaving a splattering of cuts and lacerations. When Emily had come back, she had gone right into surgery, with Sokolov pulling out as much metal as he could in a lengthy and painful procedure, even with the numbing agents.

“That was quite the week, wasn't it? Corvo getting poisoned, the Loyalists stealing you away to that lighthouse, Corvo coming back from the dead to kill them and save you too. Seems like it hardened you up good; nothing phases you anymore.”

“No, I suppose not,” she agrees, watching Sokolov work. She thinks about how most girls would feel faint at the sight of their leg in such a state; instead she watches with a mild interest, fingers still running over the notches of the audiograph card.

Sokolov eyes the card as he works, his tired gaze keeping a close watch on Emily. He runs a numbing cloth over her still-fresh stitchings. Five days since the incident and they still aren't closing as fast as the physician would like.

“Has everything been staying okay? You aren't pushing your limits, are you?” He asks, his voice laced with suspicion.

“No, I haven't been.”

“Don't lie to me, Empress. Your sutures are _literally_ stretched.”

She groans and falls back on the bed. “I'm sorry, okay? I got...I got bored, so I practiced some arm stances for the sword and I didn't think it'd be that bad. I didn't move my legs, promise!”

Sokolov’s sigh is long-suffering. “These are going to scar if they take much longer to close up, you know.”

Emily props up on her elbows, eyes bright and excited.

“Really? Yes, _finally,_ my first battle scar!” She pumps the air with her fist and Sokolov laughs, a rattling sound.

“Most girls wouldn't be so excited about their perfect skin being marred with ugly bullet wounds.”

“You know I'm not like other girls.”

“I know you aren't.” His red eyes sparkle with a small smile. “You're an Empress.”

She groans out a small _“don't remind me”_ and throws a hand over her eyes as Sokolov chuckles, going back to work. They stay silent for a time, Sokolov working and Emily doing her best not to fidget.

Her favorite thing about Sokolov is how comfortable sharing a silence with him is. He was never one for chatter, but she always loves seeking him out and hearing his stories. He always complains about her company, but also never turns her away.

It was through his stories that she had first heard of the Tyvian prison nobody had ever escaped from. A dark and scary place where the sun rarely shone and inmates tried to escape only to be eaten by the waiting wolves. But inmates could gamble an escape at any time, and no guard would stop them. They knew nobody could make it out alive.

Nobody, Emily had thought so long ago, except...

“Hey, Anton?”

Her voice feels too small, too young. She traces the notches of the card in her fingers, committing the pattern to memory.

“Yes, Emily?”

“You think he escaped yet?”

It's a common question she asks, but one that she saves only for him. Sokolov is one of the few that had been there during the rat plague, and was one of the few to treat Corvo like a person, like an equal. He was also one of the few to offer up Tyvian prison as a suitable punishment for Corvo's misbehavior.

Sokolov looks over at her, watching her as she lay on the bed, clutching her mother's audiograph to her chest. He clears his throat and finishes wrapping her new bandage with practiced hands. She doesn't sit up, but still does her best to meet his eye from her awkward position. As soon as she does though, her eyes dart back to the ceiling, her good leg twitching.

“Any reason my answer should change, this time?” It's his routine response to her routine question, one that invites her to talk about anything recent Corvo may have written.

“It's been almost 9 months since I last heard from him, that's all.”

He hums out a thoughtful sound, considering this piece of information.

“That is quite a long time, for him. Maybe he got in trouble and they revoked his letter-writing privileges.”

“Don't say that. The last time you said “get in trouble” you said that usually means dead. _‘You don't get in trouble in Tyvian prison, you get dead in Tyvian prison.’_ That's what you said.”

“Good memory.”

“So?” She repeats. She doesn't like how her voice wavers dangerously.

He sighs, takes a deep breath.

“You know that Coldridge never had anyone break out before he did, either.”

“We both know that's different. He had help on the inside.”

“So you think he's all alone up there, that he can't make friends?”

Emily snorts. “Corvo? _Make friends?_ What do _you_ think, Anton?”

“What I always think,” he says, grunting as he stands on his old joints. “I think if anyone can do it, he can. It's just a matter of when.”

“So. Eight months, no letters. You think maybe he managed it, then?”

He walks over to the bed, looks down at her prone form. Her face is skyward; her eyes are wet when they flick to meet his gaze. His face is sad, but not pitying. Sokolov doesn't pity. He simply understands.

“You miss him and the Empress so much, don't you.”

A few silent tears leak out and fall down into her ear, her hair. She nods.

“Sometimes I just want things to go back to what they were. Before the assassin Daud killed Mother, before Corvo killed all those people in return.” She shudders out a breath. “I thought it a good idea to send him to Tyvia, because I thought what he did was wrong and he agreed. But I also thought...if anyone could escape the inescapable, it's him. Corvo could do it. He'd get his freedom.”

She takes a another breath, her whole body heaving. The tears fall more freely now.

“But what if I just sent him to his death? And he took it because he thought he deserved it?” She throws her arm over her eyes again, holding back the sobs. Her chest feels too tight, and she when she tries to steel herself up it just burns all the hotter.

Empresses don't cry. But here in her chambers, with only Sokolov to witness it, she is just Emily Kaldwin, a parentless teenager playing at Empress and thinking herself special.

But she isn't special. She is just an idiot who banished her father to a cold, lonely grave.

Sokolov puts a hand on her shoulder and she grabs at him, taking his hand and squeezing.

“Corvo is unlike anyone I've ever met, Emily. An extraordinary man, even. And I _do_ stand by what I've always said; if anyone can pull away from that black hole of a prison and slip past the High Judges, it's him.”

She nods, but the doubt is too strongly rooted in her stomach. Her regret eats too deeply at her core, and she's had far too much time over the last few days --bedridden and battle-wounded-- to think about her past actions. She's had too much time to ponder on what her mother would think of her if she'd known what Emily had done.

“Get some rest, Empress. And be careful about your leg; I don't want to find one of your sutures popping again.”

She nods again, and he gives her shoulder one last pat before heading out. He stops at the bedside table and pulls out a few bottles of his elixir, setting them down gently.

“And take those for pain and to ward off any infection as needed. We don't need our fair Empress losing a leg to gangrene, now.”

“But then I'd be Emily the One-Legged,” she weakly protests, too tired for a better response. He laughs regardless, closing the door behind him with a click. The silence that follows his exit collapses on her, and she feels heavy with it.

It's only midday, and yet she’s as tired as if she had spent all day at court. She rolls over, looking out the window, listening to the ventilation fans working outside.

 _It will only be a quick nap,_ she tells herself as closes her eyes, her body feeling warm and numb from whatever painkillers Sokolov had used earlier. Almost instantly she drifts off, the audiograph card of her mother's voice still grasped tightly in her arms.

\------

Emily later awakens to whispers in her ears and floating platforms in her dreams. Her eyes shoot open and she clutches at her chest, her arms wrapping around-- Nothing at all.

She sits up then, a fast motion as she waits for the panic to still inside her.

It is dark. She's now under the sheets of her bed, and a whale lantern burns softly in the corner, anticipating her awakening. On the bedside table next to her are the elixirs and her mother's audiograph. As soon as she spots it, her body relaxes, relief spreading through her. She would have hated herself all the more if she lost one of the last pieces of her mother she had left. Instead it seems that Callista or Geoff had come by to tuck her in, and she had slept ever since.

Slowly, gently, she slides out of bed and rests weight on her good leg. She reaches out and picks up the crutch Sokolov had given her and leans against it, using it to hobble over to her desk. An elixir waits for her here as well; she eyes it carefully before screwing off the top and taking a deep, distasteful gulp.

As she shakes off the terrible flavor, the pain creeping up her leg subsides and she sighs with relief. She takes another smaller, casual sip of the tonic, eyes roaming the papers on her desk.

Most were letters to her from the state, matters that she should pay attention to but would rather brush off to Callista or Curnow. She shifts some papers; under the pile is a page with an emerald heading and she smiles; Wyman's latest letter. She drags her eyes over it, casually retaking in the words.

_Empress Emily,_

_I hope this letter finds you well! I had such a good time reading your last correspondence, it was such a delight. I hope Callista is going a bit easier on you after you blew off the ball like that! As if she could try and force you to wear a mandatory dress!_

_I’ve enclosed something that might appease Callista for next time: a new ribbon! It should match the vest I brought you a few months back. And you can wear it however you want; I think it'll make your black hair shine even more than it already does. The dyes came all the way from Serkonos; Flint is from there and recommended the color. He said it was his mother's favorite. Can you believe it? He can be so stern but he really does have a heart buried under that gruff exterior._

_That is all for now, dear Empress. My eyes look forward to seeing your handwriting again, please do send a letter soon. It's getting colder and snowier in Morley, and I'll need something to do when I'm trapped under the darkness of winter._

_All the best,_

_Wyman_

Emily smiles down at the letter fondly, setting it aside. Wyman is nice, and they give Emily a far-off perspective that she so desperately wants and needs. Hailing from Morley, Wyman and their family have been instrumental in helping to open trade lines from Dunwall back to Morley after the plague.

Having an ally like Wyman in Morley is incredibly important as well; what Emily could discern from Wyman's letters is that Morley is not happy with the crown, and those who openly support the empire are at risk of attack or assassination. Wyman themselves had been the target of such an attack, but their new bodyguard, Flint, had stopped the act just in time, in a show that Wyman had simply called _“magical.”_

It was enough to make Emily jealous. Well, _almost._ It isn't like there's anything between her and Wyman anyway. Wyman is three years her elder. And she may be Empress, but long-distance relationships are still tedious and hard. It's not like she should feel jealous that Wyman thought so highly of their protector. She _doesn't_ feel jealous. She _refuses_ to feel jealous.

She puts the letter and Wyman out her mind, cheeks heating in the night gloom. _Why are you feeling embarrassed?_ She asks herself. _Nobody is even here to make fun of you. You're all alone up in your chambers._

Just then, she hears footsteps outside her room. They pad a little too loudly on the rug, shuffling along carefully before going quiet. Then, the door handle jiggles, followed by a single rap on the door.

The rap is then followed by three sharp, short raps. And then, one final rap.

Emily’s throat catches and she forgets to breathe. She stands stock still, afraid to move, afraid to even think. She swallows, clinging to the crutch at her side.

That is a secret knock. A knock used to let Emily know it's safe and clear, but she hasn't used that knock in years; nobody has, because nobody _knows_ that knock. Nobody except…

It can't be. It’s impossible; she is hearing things, or her ears are playing a trick on her. That has to be it because there is just _no way--_

_Rap. Rapraprap. Rap._

A thrill runs through her and a hand goes to her mouth, silencing her cry. She struggles to stay upright before hobbling over to the keyhole. She peers out but only sees blackness. With shaking hands, she undoes the latch on the lock and opens the door.

The hallway is dark and empty, but for the moonlight filtering down.

Her heart pounds in her ears, the blood pumping too loudly, and she takes a breath before stepping out. It's a chilly night and her eyes strain against the dark. But she knows what she heard. The second time wasn't a mistake. It couldn't be.

_“...Corvo?”_

It's a tentative whisper out to the darkness, a pleading prayer. She repeats the question but nobody steps forward. She swallows, her mind now turning to fear and suspicion.

There could be a trap out in the hallway, set by someone who had learned of the knock and wanted to lure her away. Well, she may be young, but she isn't stupid enough for a trick like that. Carefully, she steps back into her room, locking the door behind her. She grabs at her crutch, knuckles white against the smooth wood. She leans against it, letting it do most of the work of holding her up. She takes a deep breath and lets it out, adjusting some hair that had fallen in front of her face.

 _Get a grip,_ she chides to herself.

It was impossible, which means it was wishful thinking on her part that someone was actually knocking at her door, using the secret knock that only she and Corvo used, the knock he used so that she knew it was him. Sometimes he would come in late at night after spending trials with the Empress, faithfully never leaving her side, and that knock would wake her. No matter how deep her sleep, if she heard that gentle knock she would rush to the door, ready to fling her arms around Corvos neck. It was _their_ knock. To think that she really had heard it again, after all this time was…

She grits her jaw, wiping an eye.

_Ridiculous._

Maybe the elixir is finally getting to her. Maybe in the morning she'll tell Sokolov of what happened tonight, and he can check to make sure she wasn't hallucinating from the remedy. It wouldn't do for plague victims or just those with normal infections to start thinking they were hearing things, or maybe seeing--

_Tap. Taptaptap. Tap._

Her head shoots up, eyes shining with unshed tears. She looks over to the window, heart hammering painfully against her ribcage. She wastes no time in picking herself up, hobbling over on the crutch, trying and failing to be careful of her sutures.

What's that saying Curnow always uses? Once is an accident, twice is coincidence, but thrice is a--

She unlocks the latch to the window of the tower. Outside, the city of Dunwall shines through the haze of smoke, reflecting off the water. Most clear days, it's a nice sight: a skyline to be proud of. Now though, it's merely a distraction as she throws her head out the window, looking everywhere for--

She sees him and her heart stops.

“Corvo.”

A dark shape crouched on the ventilation shafts jerks at the name, twisting to look at her. He's wearing a bulky coat she doesn't recognize and his face is a little more gaunt and a bit more scruffy than she remembers, but that doesn't matter as her burning eyes lock onto his. And finally, after four years, the eyes that haunted her every day aren't haunting her from just the mirror anymore.

_“...Emily?”_

The question is tentative and she pushes the window open more, her head nodding furiously as she steps back. In a motion so fast the human eye can't track it, Emily's father blinks over the window, pulling himself in. His feet barely touch the floor before Emily is there, hanging from his neck, the sobs loud, the tears flowing freely.

 _“Corvo!_ It's you, it's _really--_ I knew it but I didn't want to hope--”

“Emily-- Emily careful, please, shh, sweetie, you're hurt--”

Shaking hands soothe her as she wails into his thick coat, and she doesn't care that Empresses aren't supposed to cry. She doesn't care how red and wet her face gets because right now, she isn't the Empress. Here in her chambers she's just Emily Kaldwin, the daughter of Corvo Attano, a father no prison could keep from her. She may still be an idiot but at least here, in his embrace, she can feel a semblance of being something special.

Impossibly, incredibly, _ridiculously,_ Corvo is finally home. Emily hangs onto him as if her entire life depends on it, like he'll disappear if she lets go.

“I missed you, Corvo, I missed you so much--”

“It's okay, Emily,” he rasps out gently. “I'm here. And trust me, I don't plan on going anywhere for quite a while.”


	7. Culture Shocked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Corvo tries his best to... _adjust._

He eats like a man possessed.

Or, perhaps simply famished. Under that large coat Corvo had brought with him, he is definitely skinnier than he should be, skinnier even than when he got out of six months in Coldridge. While he eats, Sokolov gives him a once over to confirm that, outside of general hunger, Corvo is, indeed, in otherwise good health. Emily sits across from them at the table, her hands folded, food untouched.

Finally, Sokolov pulls his last instrument away, nodding his head.

“Yes, Empress, he's just fine. You don't have to worry about old Corvo here.”

“Hey, watch it, Sokolov, it's only been a few years,” Corvo growls, glowering over his bowl of stew, his long black hair partially pulled back into a low ponytail.

“Says the silver already showing in your beard.”

“Emily, you know you have the power to fire him at any time and for any reason, right?”

Sokolov raises an eyebrow at Emily, as if even daring her to do such a thing when he is _easily_ the most accomplished artist and physician in all the Isles. She simply smiles and rolls her eyes, finishing with, “Thank you Anton, that'll be all for now.”

He returns to her a small nod. “Empress,” he says, before gathering his things and leaving.

Emily watches him go, a smile on her face as she turns back to her father. He raises an eyebrow at her, thoughtfully chewing his blood ox meat.

“So,” he starts, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. “It's _Anton_ now, is it.”

Emily rolls eyes and groans. “He’s still as good a physician to me as he was to mother. And I'll have you know I keep him quite respectable these days, too, Corvo.”

“Mm-hmm, I'll believe that when I see it,” Corvo replies, smirking. “But I _am_ glad he's still seeing to you.”

He finishes his stew, picking the bowl up and draining it. When he brings it back down and wipes his mouth with a cloth, his eyes darken and his words take on a more serious tone.

“So. How did it happen, Emily.”

She fidgets, her hands wringing on the table.

“Well, how long have you been in the city?”

“Long enough to kick myself for not being there to stop the riot from happening,” he offers back, the regret hanging on his words like a curse. “And long enough to read the papers about it the days following. But we both know the Courier can -- and will -- sensationalize. So I want to hear it from you _;how did it happen.”_

She looks down, licking her lips. When he had crawled in through her window last night, he had refrained from asking too many questions, which made her think he hadn't _just_ gotten into Dunwall and had known what happened. It may even have been why he sought her out, and why he didn't seem too surprised that she was injured in the first place.

“I, uh, was reckless,” she mumbles down to her injured thigh. “I got out of the carriage without Alexi or Curnow and I riled the crowd and... I guess someone tried to shoot me.”

Corvo breathes out, hard, a disapproving sound. “They tried to _kill_ you, Emily, and _successfully_ shot you. Spirits.” He shakes his head and reaches over to her plate, taking the untouched roll waiting there.

“Hey--!”

“No, don't start,” he says between bites. “You weren't gonna eat it and I've earned it.”

“Look--” she says, spreading her hands before clasping them again. She purses her lips, thinking on her next words. “I can handle this, I promise. And it won't happen again--”

“Of course it won't, I'll make sure of it.”

“ _Father_ ,” she starts, her tone stern. “I'm not reinstating you as my Royal Protector.”

He pauses, bread in hand. He frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I've been well protected for the past four years by the man you hand-picked to protect me--”

“Yes, for while I was _gone --”_

 _“--and_ I have my Royal Protector to succeed Geoff Curnow already selected and apprenticing.” Her voice rises dangerously over his, making sure that every syllable is heard and understood. “She's in the training grounds as we speak.”

Corvo's eyes widen for a fraction of a second.

Emily's stomach drops.

“Oh, Corvo, no, please don't,” she starts, but he's already standing up, walking off and out of the hall. She hastily gets up and grabs her crutch, her bad leg slowing her down. “Seriously? Come on, Corvo!”

“What, are you going try and stop me?” he asks as he makes a turn and walks briskly down the hall. She limps after him, a few paces behind. He turns to look at her, arms folded, walking backwards.

“I'm hurt and you're going to make me chase after you,” she pants out. “What a great role model you are.”

“I'm not making you follow me, you're doing that yourself.”

He gets to the end of the hall and pushes his back against the doors leading outside. The day is cool and clear and bright: the best it could be, given the time of year. Across the yard, two figures are engaged in a tutorial activity. Curnow is off to the side, observing Alexi's stance as she works on thrust and recovery. Their actions catch Corvo’s eye and he _almost_ blinks over to them; Emily can see him considering the action before deciding it would be best to simply walk, his long strides quickly shortening the distance.

She grumbles from the doorway where he left her, cursing her bad leg as she slowly moves down the stairs and across the yard after him.

Corvo is about halfway into the grass when Curnow notices him. What starts as a casual glance to see who is walking his direction turns into a comical double take, eyes widening in shock. His jaw hangs open, his arms uncrossing as Corvo nears.

“Wh _\--Corvo?! What--”_

“Geoff. Good to see you well.” He finally closes the distance, holding his hand out towards the other man, eyes glinting in the light. “Mind if I borrow your sword?”

Curnow is unable to articulate a proper reply, his mouth opening and closing as he unclasps the blunted training weapon from his belt and hands it to Corvo. Emily watches Curnow try to catch her eye, as if some sort of explanation could possibly be pulled out of a glance. Emily just shakes her head when their eyes meet and continues her lopsided march across the lawn.

Alexi, from her place of intense concentration, hasn’t noticed Corvo's presence. Situated at the far end of the garden opening, she isn't even facing Curnow; instead looking over the rest of the Tower grounds and the gazebo. Corvo eyes her curiously, flipping the blade Curnow gave him in his hand, testing the weight and balance.

“Do you mind if I...?” Corvo trails off, his head motioning towards Alexi in the distance.

“I--um, I'm not sure I really have a say either way,” Curnow jokes a little nervously, his eyes flicking to the approaching Emily. “Just-- go easy on her?”

Corvo grins, toothy and excited.

“Oh, Geoff, you know I can't do _that,”_ he says with a laugh, and makes his way down to where Alexi is practicing, unawares.

Emily catches up to Curnow and pauses on her crutch, catching her breath. The stitch in her side is made all the worse by the dull throb of her leg. Next to her, Curnow stands stiff as a board, a bead of sweat on his cheek as he watches Corvo advance on Alexi.

“You know he challenged a nobleman in Morley to a duel, saying then the same thing he just told me now?” He shakes his head in wonder. “We were there to garner help and instead he picked fights.”

He sighs before continuing, “I'll never know why she thought he would make a good diplomat. His actions always spoke louder than words.”

It takes a second for Emily to realize Curnow is talking about Jessamine.

“You mean-- when he left during the rat plague? That--that wasn't the only reason he was gone so long.”

Curnow turns to look at her, a question hanging on his lips, but she isn't focused on him anymore. Not when one of Dunwall's best swordsmen and assassins just lunged towards an oblivious Alexi.

It's a small amount of movement in her peripheral that makes Alexi look up, her body turning, her sword half raised. Her eyes widen and her grip tightens as her gaze locks onto the sword swinging directly towards her. She yelps in surprise, blocking just in time. Her arm shudders, absorbing the force of the impact, and she's left with hardly any time to recover before the second strike is on her, whistling dangerously through the air. She parries that blow as well, a gasp escaping her as she realizes this assailant is _nothing_ like Curnow in fighting stance and style. She tries to yell out but Corvo swings again, nearly knocking her off balance.

She growls in frustration instead, parrying his next blow, crossing her blade with his for just a second before getting her own swing in, which Corvo cleanly dodges.

“Oh, good, good,” Corvo says, a smile playing at his lips. “But your stance is wide.”

He twists away from her next swing and she sidesteps too far, leaving her off balance. He immediately goes for her right side but she sees it and uses her momentum to jump back from the attack, quick feet dancing away. She rights herself, her hips twisting her legs back around, ready to block his attempt to take advantage of her blind spot. She brings a leg up to kick towards his head and he lurches back, taking a few steps to center himself. He flips the blade in his hand, barking out a satisfied laugh.

“I see why Curnow is training you,” He grins, a sparkle in his eye. “But you’ve lost sight of the objective, which can be dangerous if your opponent changes tactics unexpectedly.”

With catlike speed, Corvo turns from Alexi, rushing for Emily -- weakened, hobbling Emily -- who has no ability to defend herself. A small gasp escapes Alexi and then she's springing into action. She clearly hadn't expected Emily to be there, didn't expect her impromptu duel with Corvo to push her so far from the Empress. Alexi shouts and Corvo laughs, his blade rising to strike down the Empress.

Emily growls. She's far past done with her father's ridiculous game. She steadies herself and throws the crutch out, smacking Corvo square in the shin as he leans for her. Corvo stumbles, laughing out a curse, and is slowed enough for Alexi to appear, her blade at his neck, pushing him back and away from Emily.

For quite a few beats, nobody moves. Alexi is panting hard, catching her breath, while Corvo and Emily remain stockstill, waiting for her next move. Finally, her emotions and breath even out and she steps away, letting Corvo go. Corvo stands up straight and brushes himself off, smiling all the while. He gives the training sword back to a still-stunned Curnow, while Alexi turns to a disgruntled Emily.

“Emily, are you okay? Leave it to Geoff to hire an assailant to openly attack you like that. Who is that guy, anyway?”

“You just dueled with Corvo Attano, Alexi. My father.”

Alexi stutters to a halt and her face flushes all the way up to her ears. A hand taps on her shoulder and Alexi turns, squeaking when she realizes she's face to face with the legendary Royal Protector.

“O-oh! Lord Attano! I'm so sorry-- I didn't realize you were.. home?” Alexi finishes on a question, her eyes darting to Emily for an explanation. He offers a hand; she takes it, palms sweating. “It's a pleasure to duel you.”

“Likewise. I heard from Emily you're going to be her future Royal Protector. I'm definitely happy with what I've seen so far. Alexi, right?”

“Y-yes. Alexi Mayhew, sir.”

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen in the Month of Clans, sir.”

He nods approvingly.

“From what I heard about the carriage grenade, I knew you had good instincts. I'm glad you've proven that right. Make sure you listen to those instincts when they start yelling at you; they'll keep saving your life, and hers.”

Alexi nods and Corvo grins, giving her shoulder a pat. He then turns to Curnow, who straightens up, still in a state of semi-shock.

“Geoff, I wanted to let you know too, you've done a good job so far. I had to scout the tower twice before I could get in last night.”

Curnow’s sigh is resigned. “Of course you were able to infiltrate the tower last night.”

“If it helps, only _I_ would have been able to do it, but I'll point out a few blind spots I found just in case…”

Emily watches the two men walk off before turning to Alexi, a look of awe making the other girl's features glow.

“I thought you said he was in Tyvia?” Alexi asks her, her voice reduced to a hushed whisper. Emily just shakes her head, watching her father's back as he talks to her current Royal Protector.

“He was, but he just... _appeared_ last night, right outside my window.”

“What-- Did he _climb the tower?”_

Emily nods and frowns, unsure of how to explain without making Corvo sound heretical. “He's been coming and going like that for years, since working with my mother. He knows the tower better than anyone.”

“Well, at least he’s doing well.”

“Yeah,” Emily says, a twinge of worry creeping through her. “But it's a little weird…”

“What is?”

“Nothing,” she says, her voice far away.

“It’s just... It's like he never left.”

\------

He acts normal. Like he hasn't missed a beat of living life in Dunwall Tower.

For Corvo though, it's _not_ normal, and this eats more and more at Emily with each passing day.

She keeps thinking of when he came home, crawling in through the window and holding her tight. She had asked so many questions and he hardly answered any of them, shaking them off and checking her over. There had only been two things on his mind, then; a hot shower and --

“Don't touch the Knife,” he had said, a dark undercurrent flowing just beneath the cool and casual words. Her rebellious mind had almost done it anyway, reaching out because _really,_ what could an innocuous -- if not curious -- knife do, only to find her wrist held tight, stopped mid-grab. She’d gasped at the force behind the grip, instinctively trying to pull away but unable to do so, meeting Corvo's eyes. His face was deadly serious, verging on anger.

 _“ Don’t_ _,”_ he said, putting more force behind the request.

“But--”

“Do you remember that rune you found at the Hound Pits Pub, all those years ago?” He asked, and she nodded. “Do you remember the bad dreams it gave you?”

She did.

“Well, imagine those nightmares. Now make those nightmares worsen tenfold and then have them become a reality.”

She had swallowed, slowly drawing away from the weapon.

 _“ Please_ _,”_ he had said. His desperation made his voice waver in a way Emily hadn't yet forgotten. _“Never_ touch that Knife.”

Since then, she hasn't seen hide nor hair of the blade. She hasn't asked, and hoped it would be a situation of “out of sight, out of mind". But something eats at Emily whenever she catches her father talking to others around the Tower, body loose and casual, even as everyone else is still adjusting to his presence.

It's as if he's trying too hard to feel normal again.

Maybe the others don't see him like Emily does. Maybe they would say it's been a long time and she doesn't know her father that well anymore. But Emily has a great memory; where others talk of a faded childhood, hers is bright, and she remembers all the important details. She remembers the stories Corvo told in the dark, the soft smile he saved only for her and Jessamine. She remembers his quick feet and impressive swordplay. She remembers how good he was at dancing, and how often he tried to teach her mother, despite how hopeless Jessamine had always been with her rhythm.

She remembers how his fierce loyalty had driven him to do things she had never thought Corvo capable of. She knows he fights as if his life depends on it. She knows the secret of the Mark on his hand and the regrets he carries in his heart.

He shows none of that now -- even the Mark, he keeps wrapped and concealed. She can't help but wonder what else he’s hiding from wandering eyes, including hers.

“So,” she asks one day, walking into the old spymaster quarters where Corvo has holed himself up in. He hadn't been excited about the prospect of being in Burrow’s old space, where he had murdered the man after broadcasting his crimes, but he had chosen the room regardless, perhaps because of its high vantage point overlooking the throne room.

When she walks in now, she catches him eyeing a suspicious part of the wall where he had, once, long ago, hung a heart on a sleeve. As soon as he realizes she's watching, he turns away from that spot, looking at her, his frown morphing into a small smile. It’s almost like the ones he used to give her, back when things hadn't yet fallen apart.

“Settling in okay, I take it?” she asks, casually.

“Well enough. Finally getting by without that crutch?”

Emily winces, shaking out her left leg. “It's still bandaged, but at least I can walk. Sokolov said it's going to make for a grisly scar.”

He laughs, head shaking. “Well, you always wanted a scar. Guess you have one now.”

“Hopefully the first of many,” Emily muses, much to Corvo's complaint.

Despite the still-healing injury, she strides smoothly over and joins him in the room. Out of the corner of her eye, Emily catches the glint of the curious dual-bladed knife, settled casually on a chair in the corner. She looks at Corvo, who rubs his hands together, as if warming them with friction. Gently, she puts her hand in his wrapped palm, surprised to feel the Mark burning under her fingertips.

He grasps her hand briefly before grimacing and pulling it away, shaking it.

Her brow furrows. “Are you okay? Is the Mark bothering you?”

“It's fine, I just... haven't used it in a while.”

“Since you came home,” she surmises.

“Yeah, or close to.”

She frowns; that was only eight days ago. “Is it because you don't want to get caught? If so I can arrange it to where I have people not bothering you after a certain hour, or give you a different room with more access in and out.”

He shakes his head. “I don't want to get you in trouble, and I don't-- I _shouldn't_ need it while I'm here.”

She looks him up and down, watching him carefully. He shifts; she hears the soft _chink_ of metal under fabric. She glances at his desk, where a small collection of coin and paper is strewn about.

“Corvo,” she chides, a grin pushing at her cheeks. “Are you picking pockets?”

He scoffs, his face tight. He folds his arms in, tucking his hands into his armpits. She gasps.

“You _have_ been, haven't you? That's why you've been so damn casual, you're grabbing trinkets from everyone! I should have known when Ramsey told me he couldn't find the guard keys…”

“Come on, Emily. I’m just--” he leans away from her, resting on his other hip, foot fidgeting. “I'm trying to adjust.”

Her face goes soft. “Well, what do you need? I'll make sure it's seen to. I _am_ Empress, after all.”

He smiles, the expression seeming more genuine than his earlier attempt.

“I just need something to _do_ while I'm here. I'm not used to being here and not being Royal Protector. So I guess I've just taken to bothering everyone else and…”

“And proceeding to steal all their notes and keys and coin.”

He grimaces. “You call it stealing, I call it _resource gathering.”_

“Corvo, you don't need to live up to your namesake, we have a library for that.”

“Not for current affairs, you don't.”

She groans; he smiles sheepishly, flexing his fingers. She goes over to the desk, casually glancing over his gathered info, finding many important and confidential documents there. She muses over a few pages, putting the pieces together. She turns back to him, hands folded behind her back, putting on her best Empress persona.

“Well, Lord Attano,” she starts sternly, all business. “I guess there's no helping it.”

He deflates a little, hand going behind his head. He even has the gall to look ashamed in front of the Empress.

“I can rein it in, if you need me to. And I swear most documents are returned after I read them--”

“You'll be instated as my Royal Spymaster. Effective immediately.”

“I--um, _what_?”

“I'll have Callista get the paperwork ready by tonight,” she says casually, and gathers up some of the documents, shaking them. “And I’ll give you copies of any future confidential material. As well as the key to the archives--” she then stops herself, eyes roaming over the keys he already managed to procure. “--no, sorry, you already _have_ the archive key, so we'll skip that and I'll let you hang onto it.”

“You want _me_ to be the Royal Spymaster? You don't have one already?”

“Of course not. After everything that happened with mother, I didn't trust anyone with the position. I didn't want someone with...that kind of power.”

Corvo blinks, watching her carefully. She breathes, steadying herself.

“But you're _you,_ Corvo. I can't stop you from sneaking around when you already do that for fun, and I can't have your Mark -- I don't know _, exploding..._ So you have permission to come and go to gather any information you need, or that I might need.”

“Are you sure?”

“Look... It's the only way I can hold you accountable and know you're okay. I've been watching you act normal for a week and it's been _weird,_ alright? You _aren't_ normal, you _aren't_ like everyone else. You don't have to blend in.”

Corvo laughs nervously. “Was I that bad?”

“I'm not going to say it hasn't been nice to see you smile, but when it doesn't reach your broody eyes it just comes off as unnerving.”

He laughs again, a hearty sound. She smiles too, rubbing her arm. “I'll make sure this is an internal affair as well; that way you can remain covert. And to give you as much freedom as you need.”

He closes their distance and pulls her in, holding her close. She closes her eyes, head just under his chin, and hugs back.

“Spirits, you're so much taller now,” he says absently.

“Yeah well, give me a few years, we'll see if I get as tall as you.”

She feels the chuckle more than hears it.

“Yeah, we'll see.”

\------

“Morley?”

“Morley,” Corvo nods, moments after blinking into Emily's office that night for their usual meeting. Unusually, though, is that Corvo has missed the last four meetings while out on a non-routine scout of the city, and Emily isn't thrilled with him over it.

“Is that what's been keeping you this past week? Gathering information on _Morley_?” She's exasperated, tired, and just a twinge angry with him. “By the way, you're getting careless; there was another sighting of you down at the docks, and the people are starting rumors again.”

He shifts, left hand twitching before he folds his arms and looks away. As he shifts, she can hear the soft scrape of metal across fabric that accompanies Corvo everywhere he goes; she looks down at the mask on his right side and Knife on his left and grimaces.

“I thought you were using your old folded blade again.”

“The Knife is lighter and gets the job done just as well.”

“I hope you haven't forgotten the last time you carried that Knife around with you while you were gone for days at a time, scouring the city.”

His eyes narrow, offended. “Oh, you mean while I was on a necessary mission, _Empress,_ that I was tipped off to, and _you_ approved to send me on?”

“I didn't send you to _slaughter_ the Hatters, and you cannot pin that decision on me!” She growls back at him, and he clams up, stiff and closed off.

“That happened months ago now, Emily.”

“And you killed almost half the city seven _years_ ago, father! Necessary or not, it happened--and people still aren't happy about it!”  Of course, by “people” she meant herself; by “not happy” she meant livid and at a breaking point. She didn't want a city ruled by death, but it was hard to convince people of that when Corvo was still running around, creating bloodshed and rumors and--

She takes a shuddering breath and straightens up, all business again. Corvo glowers, sulking in the middle of the room.

“I don't think I need to explain to you, _again_ , Your Majesty, that killing the Hatters and their leader meant saving you and most of your cabinet--” Corvo recounts as she scoffs, turning away from him, pacing behind her desk “--but I was not out for so long this time because I was killing people or cleaning up gangs. It's because--”

She cuts him off with a disappointed laugh, shaking her head. He narrows his eyes at her, his dark hair casting deeper shadows across his face.

“What, you don't believe me? Your father _and Royal Spymaster?”_

“I believe that you do have pertinent information that I need to know and that you'll faithfully tell me,” she states, tersely, “But I also have a sneaking suspicion that you are going to -- as you typically do -- choose not to tell me things out of some sort of misplaced protectiveness.”

“Oh, _apologies,_ Empress, but after being a spymaster for a year and a half, I’d like to think I have a good feeling of when you should know things and when you don't need to learn about the less savory aspects of your Empire--”

“And I have told you many times that you aren't my protector anymore, Father!” she yells, her face flushing with anger. She paces away from him, running a hand through her hair.

“Morley,” she repeats. Behind her, she can hear Corvo take a steadying breath, but it's another few ticks before he manages a reply.

“Yes. There may be some rebel factions there that are looking threaten the Empire and need to be investigated and stopped. There was a lot of chatter at the docks about it. It's always been present, but the reports are increasing and it could be a real problem.”

“And you investigating Morley has _nothing_ to do with the fact that you know I'm courting Wyman now?” she says, turning to him, eyes shining with angry tears. She watches his face slacken for a second before gathering himself. He almost has the decency to look ashamed.

_Almost ._

“I-- You knew that I knew?”

“As if I couldn't know, Corvo!” she trills, her voice fighting for power but still cracking under the pressure. She rushes toward him, all righteous fury now. “They left just a few days ago! And you were gone and I knew, _I knew_ that you were trailing me, spying on me for no reason other than being a nosy father! I don't know why I hoped for better from you!”

He watches her display of anger and can't even formulate a reply to defend himself with. She shakes with her rage, because she couldn't even have this one thing-- this _one piece_ of privacy--

“Give me the letter.”

“What?” It's his turn to have his voice break.

 _“ Wyman’s letter!_ Don't you dare play dumb with me, Corvo Attano!”

He looks down at Emily, still infuriatingly taller than her, despite the extra inches the last year and a half has given her. Slowly, he pulls the letter he had taken from her belt earlier and gives it back. Still sealed.

She snatches it away from his hand, eyes still seething with unshed tears. She was an Empress of the Isles, and Void be damned if the Empress was caught crying like this.

He clears his throat: she is surprised when he pulls another three documents out of his vest, slowly giving them to her. She looks at them; she doesn't recognize the handwriting. Nestled in one of the folded pages rests a smuggled audiograph card.

“These are what you need to see and hear,” he says softly. “As for Wyman's letter--Spirits, I planned on returning that to you, Emily, I swear--”

“Save it for the Outsider,” she bites back, and his mouth shuts with a click, visibly shaken. It was a step over the line and she knew it, and her eyes found his in a silent apology.

“Just… listen to the card, Emily.”

She gives him a last look, but his face is blank, unreadable. This worries her, and she walks over to the other side of the room, carefully inserting the card into the audiograph and playing it. The sound scratches for a moment as the device finds purchase on the unfamiliar notches, then a gruff female voice begins to play--

“ _It's done; I've finally spread enough of the word here in Gristol to potentially make a difference. Next stop: Serkonos. Of course, Serkonos should be easier to sway-- so many Morleyans live there and moved down there after the Insurrection. It's been just over 40 years, long enough for a new generation, but not long enough for the old to forget what happened. We may just have allies there still as well._

_I'm leaving this as a note for Grisby; we'll be leaving soon so if you don't find us, just assume we're on our way back to Morley. If you miss the boat, wait a few days before leaving so it doesn't look suspicious._

_Please be careful. That masked vigilante is cropping up again in reports and even if it's just superstition, you never know when some commoner will do something stupid and play hero. Keep your head down, lay low, and survive. You're more valuable alive. See you soon.”_

The audiograph cuts off there, and Emily turns, watching Corvo carefully.

“That Grisby-- are they--?”

“I took care of it.”

“Oh come on Corvo, don't tell me you--”

“They are down in the holding cells under the kitchens,” he finishes, and a small piece of her tension eases. “They haven't talked yet. I don't know if they ever will, but if not, _Coldridge_ will have a cozy cell for them to call home.”

He says the name like he's spitting it, and Emily winces in sympathy. She breathes in, out; she meets his eyes, two burning coals in the shadowed darkness.

“Do you propose following this lead?”

“It's the best one I've gotten out of this investigation,” he says hurriedly, motioning towards the audiograph. “If I'm in Morley, I may be able to personally look into the matter, maybe even stop it before it's too late and Morley tries to mount another coup.”

Emily watches his eagerness, a tendril of worry worming its way up her spine.

“Corvo,” she says quietly, “Do you suspect the Morleyan crown is behind this?”

“It's too early to tell, but... I don't believe so. It appears to be centered around a growing underground faction against the Empire.”

“So you don't think Wyman is connected to this?”

Here he stumbles, taking a second too long to respond.

“No, I don't,” he begins, tentative, “But I think there should be an eye on them anyway, just in case they are being used as an agent or a spy--”

“You can go to Morley, Corvo,” Emily cuts in, voice rising over his. He straightens, knowing he's talking to his Empress now, not his daughter. “But I don't want you following or engaging Wyman. I don't want them to know you're there unless their life is threatened.”

His eyes widen and he has the gall to look affronted. “I-- But Emily, if there's something close to the Wyman family, I'll need to know and--”

 _“Life-threatening_ only, _Lord Corvo_ _.”_ Her voice is stern, cold. It surprises even herself, but she didn't waver in tone or position. “Do I make myself clear?”

A strange expression has settled on Corvo's face. She doesn't recognize it, but she doesn't look away, doing her best to try and impart some power over her reckless father.

“You are more like her than you know,” he whispers softly, shoulders sagging as he deflates. Her heart burns in her chest and she recalls the last time he had heard an empress address him like that.

Her lip quivers, and she almost breaks.

“Do I make myself clear, Royal Spymaster.” She hates that her voice stutters. An Empress cannot break. Not like this.

He bows his head slightly. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

She inclines her head in response. “Excellent. I'll have a ship prepared for you in the morning. I'll make sure they know at the docks…” she trails off. Takes a breath. Her heart burns more painfully.

She hates this, she realizes. She hates this so much. For too long it's quiet between them, and not for the first time she wishes she wasn't doing this, that it was still Mother, not her, calling shots like this. She wishes that Corvo wasn't standing there with that Mark on his hand, that mask and that Knife strapped to his belt. She doesn't want him to look so tired, so _defeated_ , in front of his own daughter.

“I'm sorry.”

She's not sure what he's sorry for; maybe he isn't either. She nods and accepts it all the same. Slowly, she crosses the room and wraps her arms around his waist. He sighs and pulls her closer, a hand on her head, stroking her hair carefully.

“I still love you, you know,” she whispers to him from under his chin.

“I know, my Emily. I still love you too.”

“I don't want you to leave again.”

“I'll be back sooner rather than later, and will write if anything comes up.”

She nods, and they say their goodnights. Corvo blinks out the window again; all at once her room is quiet and all too empty. She listens to the audiograph just to fill the silence and tries not think about how she'll be sending her own father away once again.

“Morley,” she mutters to herself, and looks out the window, a shadow of fear passing over her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a few more chapters and the I'll probably slow down updates to just once a week. But we're finally heading to Morley! I have SUCH a story planned for that place, huehuehue.


	8. The Shape of Flint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Morley.

Morley is too Void-damned dreary.

The warmth of the fast-approaching summer does _things_ to the Morleyan weather, and generally none of it is positive. Instead of the usual cool humidity, where the fog hangs heavy over Wynnedown before retreating over rolling hills and into the countryside, it becomes a constant clinging heat that never dries and never goes away. The fog still comes and goes, the rains all the more for it; and yet, the world never really cools. It's just a close, wet heat that isn't enjoyable and never learns the meaning of _personal space._

Castor Flint has experienced worse conditions in his life, but if he's honest, he had chosen those conditions and dealt with them accordingly. But this weather? Even his time in the industrial soot of Dunwall wasn't this bad. At least he could have gotten dry on the Isle of Gristol, if he wanted to.

Wynnedown is different. Nobody chooses the constant, misting rain of Wynnedown. They just have it, complain about it, and move on with their lives.

But just one dry day, with a bit of sun. Is that too much to ask for?

Flint pulls the cigarette from his mouth, grimacing, holding a large umbrella in his other hand. It’s a pain in the ass to have an addiction that relies on smoke and fire when the atmosphere is persistently wet; on days like today, the ease it brings his nerves isn't worth it. He drags another breath from the cigarette before shaking it and tossing it away. The flame at the end goes out before it even hits the puddle on the sidewalk.

He breathes out, the smoke hanging heavy in the thick air.

The soft sound of lazy rain hits the ground and the protective barrier just above his head. When Wynnedown rains, it's rarely angry. The waters in the bay tend to be much more ferocious, with the city itself carved out of thick cliffs. No matter where one is in the city, the sound of the waves battering the rocks to pieces can be heard, and only the most skilled of whaling ships and trawlers usually manage to find port in the city. More commercial and commuter boats to Morley go in and out of Fraeport or Arran than the capital itself.

Yet, despite the angry seas, Wynnedown boasts some of the finest whale oil in all the Isles. Something about the bitterly cold water brings in a special breed of whale -- one that is hardier and yields an oil that, when refined, burns twice as a long and has nearly thrice the properties of whales from Serkonos or Gristol. Half of the oil in Dunwall Tower comes directly from Wynnedown, and a good chunk of that oil goes through the Rodagh Trading Company -- along with, more recently, most textiles and fabrics, a growing export since the fall of Draper's Ward.

That line of work makes the Rodagh family one of particular interest in Wynnedown and Dunwall, and the close tie hasn't gone unnoticed. The company and family behind it are currently the subject of both praise and ridicule in Morley. In the past, that publicity took on a more negative tone, with threats and assassination attempts.

That's where Flint and his men come in.

A bell rings and a door opens somewhere behind Flint, followed by the slap of footfalls on wet stone. He turns to see his main charge, Wyman, on their way over. The young noble has their arms filled with bags carrying the newest samples of product, and Flint quickly stretches out the umbrella, making sure the fabric doesn't get too wet. Wyman grins and mutters out a fast thank you, rushing to push the product into Flint's arms. Flint takes it without question, patiently waiting until Wyman is able to open their own umbrella.

“A successful trip, I hope?”

Wyman grins wider, finally popping open their umbrella and brushing the water off their clothing.

“As well as could be expected! The silk isn't what they were hoping for this year, but we'll see if next season isn't better. The wool -- as always -- is of fantastic quality. And the dyes! I swear they get their colors direct from Sokolov himself.”

As Wyman chats, Flint looks to a nearby rooftop; in the gloom he can see a lone, cloaked figure, keeping an eye on them. He meets their eye and nods, and the figure turns away, jumping off to a new vantage point.

“I'm almost positive Sokolov wouldn't give up his personal color stash that easily,” Flint huffs out. “I met the man once. He's prickly, even on his good days.*

Wyman gasps, green eyes shining bright as they take the bag of textiles back from their bodyguard. _“Flint!_ You never told me you've met the great Anton Sokolov!”

Flint grunts. Together, they walk back to their ride. “I told you I lived in Dunwall for a while. Well, would you believe I once snuck into the Academy?”

“Snuck in?” Wyman laughs, but if it's in mirth or disbelief, Flint isn't sure. “Is that even possible?”

“Anything is possible when you're homeless and it's the Month of Darkness.”

“So you ran into Sokolov then? Interesting.”

“Yeah, and hopefully I'll not meet him again. He's not really my type.”

“Perhaps I'll ask to meet him the next time I'm in Dunwall to see Emily. Maybe drop your name, see if he remembers you.”

“Trust me, if you aren't a pretty lady with a nice behind, he doesn't care enough to recall.”

Wyman laughs and climbs into the waiting carriage, Flint following soon after. He pauses at the door, taking a quick sweep with his eyes, but when nothing of note comes to his attention, he too climbs inside and shuts the door. Flint then nods to the driver, who takes them off to their next destination.

As they both settle in, Wyman takes their time to check each sample, giving a few to Flint to look over and examine.

Wyman is, in every meaning of the word, an eclectic character. It's something that strikes at Flint every so often, and has ever since he came into Wyman's employment close to five years ago. It hits him again now, as he handles each fabric sample Wyman gives him. The very fact that Wyman always cares enough about their bodyguard’s opinion to ask on what they think about textiles is just the tip of the Tyvian iceberg.

Wyman has this ability to be both nondescript and yet impossible to ignore, all at the same time. They are an infectious personality, and possibly one of the most extroverted individuals Flint has met in his life. When they talk, it has a musical quality that most people their age don't possess. They have the flow of a Serkonan dancer but can also command the brusque tone of a guard officer. They can put a whale butcher in their place with single a look and stern word, but have the gentle touch to discern the quality of the finest fabric.

They are a person who has even managed to embrace opposing ideals and interests. Those who recount meeting Wyman tend to speak of them in a grandiose fashion, yet the real individual is nothing more than a slim frame with windswept strawberry blonde hair, green eyes, and a straight nose with too many freckles to count. With light lashes and a soft smile, it's no wonder the young Empress Emily was absolutely _enamored_ with them.

On the other, darker side of the coin, it's also no wonder that Wyman personally has had no less than five attempted attacks on them to date, with four of them personally neutralized by Flint himself. Things have been getting heated in Morley regarding public opinion towards the Empire, and regardless of how true those feelings are, it means allies of Emily among the noble houses are in constant danger. Public ridicule towards the Rodagh house has been especially vile, and Flint is anticipating another hit soon.

Other bodyguards would have been at the end of their wits by now; paranoid wrecks that their charge will be attacked or ambushed. But Flint is seasoned, practiced; he had his methods and he's not scared of amateur assassins. Barring the Empress herself, nobody in the Isles is better protected than Wyman. _Nobody._

So he relaxes in the back of the carriage as they travel the wet cobbled streets of Wynnedown. He eyes the thick fabric Wyman has just shoved into his gloved hands, turning it over carefully. Wyman looks at him expectantly.

“Well? What do you think? I'm having this one commissioned personally.”

Flint raises an eyebrow, taking his right glove off carefully so he can get a feel for the fabric in his hand. He rubs a finger over it; it feels like a hybrid leather, suede-soft but also durable and weather resistant. This piece has been dyed, showing a deep, subtle blue.

“Nice. Pliable. Lightweight, despite its thickness.” Flint hands the fabric back to Wyman, frowning as he pulls his glove back on. “But can it stop a sleep dart? Take a crossbow bolt? Keep shrapnel at bay?”

“I'm hoping to test it when we get back. I have a few pieces that got shipped in that I'm excited about, and a lot of notes and questions I want to ask. If it goes well, it could very well revolutionize what we consider protective wear.”

“And you're hoping to make some for Emily and her new bodyguard,” Flint muses.

Wyman's face flushes, but only just so.

“Goodness, not just them! You as well! I can't have my bodyguard going out and getting harmed on duty, so the pieces I have coming are fitted for you, special.”

“And your men too?” he asks, interested.

Wyman nods. “Eventually, yes. I mean-- I do have an order in place for Emily first, she's been so keen since I told her my ideas and--”

“It's fine, Wyman. It's not easy to prepare whale hide like this yet, and I'm surprised at how supple it's already been made to be. I look forward to testing out what we have back at the estate.”

Wyman nods, looking at the new fabric with thoughtful eyes. Flint tilts his head at them, hands folded on his knees.

“It's a good start,” he adds, when Wyman doesn't comment. “Sturdy, should handle wear well. It's been a long time since the Isles have seen a new fabric like that.”

Another nod.

Flint frowns.

“You thinking about a try for the Academy again, next year?”

Wyman grimaces. For all their admiration of Sokolov and love of Flint's stories, their interest in the Academy itself has been lacking.

“You know how I feel about that, Flint.”

“Does your father know, though?”

Wyman laughs derisively. “You already know the answer to that. _‘Nobody your age in all the Isles has your charisma and ambition! And your brain!’_ He considers me the greatest thing since Jindosh and I just--”

Wyman breathes, and Flint lets them find their words. But no more comes up on the subject, which is also fine; it's a common and unwanted discussion in the Rodagh household. So Flint is sure he'll hear more about it later from either Wyman or their father.

They sit in relative silence as they travel, Wyman peering out the window and Flint dozing with one eye open. Even from his half-alert state, Flint can tell Wyman is deep in thought, the gears turning behind their bright, green eyes.

Flint waits. He’s very good at waiting.

“Flint,” Wyman says, their voice soft.

He opens his eyes, fully engaged.

“I'm here.”

“You've got a story for everything from your life, before you met me.” There's a curiously wistful tone to their voice and it makes Flint frown. “But I’ve realized you haven't told a single love story.”

The frown deepens into a scowl.

“Love isn't really my thing.”

“Not even once? Not a soul can catch the fancy of Castor Flint?”

“Where's this coming from?” Flint can't help but ask, even if he already has a sneaking suspicion.

Wyman sighs, their face flushing. They are still looking out the window, but their gaze is somewhere far past the street and the apartments.

“It's nothing. I just miss Emily, more than usual. I've been back from Dunwall for over a month now and just-- it's _different._ I think about her all the time, wonder what she's doing, how she's living. I count the days until we leave to see her again. And I-- I’m just trying to figure out if it's…you know. If I'm actually falling in love. If this is what it's like.”

Wyman turns their head but doesn't meet Flint's steel-grey gaze. Instead, they run a hand through their hair, mussing the already-untidy curls. They exhale hard and adjust the clasps on their vest, their uncertainty leaving them in a number of tells. Flint shifts, bringing a foot up to rest on his knee.

He folds his arms in and carefully plans his next words.

“Once.”

Wyman’s eyes flicker over, all rapt attention as their body stills. Flint works his jaw and fights against the urge to look away.

“It was a Fugue Feast some thirty years ago, when I was still young and unpredictable. Probably around your age. I wouldn't call it love, but it was… _something.”_

Yes. It had been something. Something like intrigue, or infatuation, or perhaps like obsession. But it certainly hadn’t been love. He knows that, for sure.

“What happened?”

Flint shrugs casually, as if the story isn't anything special that crosses his memory from time to time.

“There was a boy. Just a little younger than me, but already cocky from gaining a reputation in swordplay. I challenged him, and so we dueled. After that, we danced...more than once and in more than one way. The next morning, time resumed and…”

“And?” Wyman asks, their eyes glittering.

“And I walked away and left the city and I never saw him again,” Flint ends, matter-of-factly. “It's not too terribly exciting as a love story because it’s over before it even becomes one. And if it's been thirty years, perhaps it was always meant to be nothing more than a moment set against the ticking of the clock.”

“You ever wonder what happened to him?”

Flint eyes Wyman carefully, trying to best think of how to respond. At that moment though, the carriage stops; they've reached their destination just outside the estate. Wyman looks out and then smiles at Flint.

“Another time then.”

Flint nods. “Another time.”

They step back out into the rain, Flint exiting first in a practiced move, holding the umbrella for Wyman as they get out. Their last stop is a small market of local wares that Wyman likes visiting to pick up their usuals before heading home. Flint follows close behind, but pauses when he catches a figure outside the corner of his eye.

Standing in the shadows, one of his men approaches him.

“Sir,” he starts, keeping his voice low. “We finally found where the stalker is hiding. It's not far from here.”

Flint's heart jumps. For the last week, his men have reported seeing a figure--maybe multiple-- watching Wyman from a distance. Close enough to be a potential threat, but too far away to be identified. He turns to his agent, giving him the umbrella.

“Can you give me the location?”

He nods and inclines his head. “There's an abandoned apartment building two blocks down and towards the wharf. Be careful; Misha already set off one trap when we were scouting earlier.”

A worried look crosses his face and his other man raises his hands. “He’s fine, and as far as I could tell, we left the place undetected and unfollowed.”

“Stay with Wyman,” Flint finishes, and his man nods, walking out after Wyman with the umbrella Flint had given him. Flint watches him go before flipping up the hood on his jacket and slipping away to do the job he does best.

\------

The building that the stalker is using as a hideout has seen better days. Due to the demands of the climate, Morley has sturdy buildings, designed to keep out the windy drafts, the winter snow, and persistent rain. The stone used in the older buildings, however, is no good against heat and humidity. When unkempt, they quickly get overrun with moss and ivy, the stone slowly degrading as roots and water expand the cracks and make it all fall apart, brick by brick.

The moss and overgrowth and soft drip of rainwater make for easy stealth as Flint carefully sneaks his way through the old apartment complex. His muffled footfalls stay with him and the air closes in oppressively, heavy from the rain, heat, and the lack of central ventilation. He plans each breath and step carefully, combat knife at the ready in his right hand: if _his_ sound is being carefully concealed by the decaying stone, no doubt so is the noise of the one he's hunting as well. A rustling at his feet causes him to reflexively still; but it's just a bird, a sparrow fleeing from his slow approach.

Flint swallows, the sweat trickling unpleasantly down his neck. He takes a few more silent steps, leaning around another corner, expertly checking for any traps.

Something feels off. He can't put his finger on it, but it’s as if this individual is woefully unprepared for a potential ambush. Flint has been in this business much longer than he cares to admit, and he can tell immediately that this whole setup is...sloppy. _Naïve_ , even. As if the person concealed within doesn't feel the need for many alarms to let them know if they're being approached from within.

He leans down and disarms another trap, carefully coiling and storing the wiring. In the trap, he pulls out a shock bolt; a good choice, given the wet atmosphere. He tucks it away and explores the room further, checking his own wares while doing so. He has a few sleeper darts, a handful of incendiary bolts which will be of no use here, some crossbow bolts, and three stun mines on his belt. He has his sword, the combat knife. A pistol at his back with three bullets. More than enough to take out multiple assailants, if need be. He truly hopes it doesn't come to that, though.

He had renounced killing in his line of work long ago, and doesn't want to go back on that now.

The room is quiet while he checks his gear, the only sound being the consistent drip of the water slowly finding its way indoors. Flint breathes in the thick, wet air, breathes out. He calms his nerves and lets his senses strain past their limits.

There, upstairs. One, maybe two floors up. He hears the soft creak of wooden floor boards, as if someone just put their feet down. Flint frowns, eyeing the ceiling as he stores his weapons carefully. He keeps the knife in his right hand, his left free and mobile. He crouches down and quietly makes his way out and to the stairs.

He's about halfway up to the next floor when the position of his quarry abruptly changes.

Flint pauses, listening carefully. He feels the shift more than he hears it: a strange whisper from within. The stalker moves again, a fast displacement from one area to another. Flint takes another quiet, careful breath and does his best to calm his beating heart. He prays to whatever is listening in the Void that this isn't going to go as south as he thinks it will.

Another trap; this time, a concealed spring razor hidden amongst the moss. Flint grimaces and decides it would be best to just avoid the device altogether; he moves to the right to hug the wall just to find another shrapnel trap waiting there as well. He carefully looks around; another spring razor sits catty-corner of the others, coiled like a hidden snake.

Flint curses, weighing his options. He checks the window to his right: it's overgrown and cracked from the weight of encroaching vegetation. Essentially a no-go, especially if he wants to stay quiet. He could try sneaking past, but if the spring razors are anywhere close to how sensitive as he remembers the traps being, then trying to sneak past could mean the loss of a limb at best and certain death at worst.

His palms itch with sweat. He ignores them for now.

Instead, he pulls out his wrist crossbow, carefully loading a bolt. He lines up the shot, backing up to the stairs, and loosens it.

Silently, it hits the mark in the gathering gloom. The spring razor jumps to life, the deadly shrapnel-covered wires singing through the air and slashing nearby vegetation. Flint waits a few seconds, listening, before loading another bolt and repeating two more times. He listens, draws in a shaking breath, and takes a careful step into the room.

They appear in a blink of the eye and Flint gasps, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. Like a ghost, the hooded figure stands silent on the far side of the room. A tendril of blue smoke curls heavy off a wrapped left hand and the figure shakes it off, eyeing one of their spring traps. They bend down and examine the bolt, metal clinking together as they straighten and walk the perimeter.

Flint is on the perimeter, but his spot on the stair means he’s still partially hidden. He can still back down the stairs unseen, if he's careful enough.

He needs to get out of here as quickly and quietly as he can. If that figure did what Flint _thinks_ they just did, he needs to get to his men and to Wyman. The situation has officially hit _worst case scenario_ and he can't linger here any longer.

He takes a step back.

The decaying wood creaks under his weight.

It all happens automatically. The world around him goes grey and quiet, like the color and sound was suddenly pulled from everything. He grits his teeth and doesn't even care how loud he is now as he turns and jumps the stairs. Time’s been stopped which means he's been seen and that he needs to leave. _Right now._

He feels the rush of air pass under him as he leaps, and isn't at all surprised when he sees the figure of a man -- because he knows it's a _man_ now, knows _exactly_ who this person is -- and his glowing left hand waiting down below for when he lands. Flint brings his knife up protectively just as the man below him raises a long, twin-bladed weapon, ready for the counter-strike.

Flint hits the man below him, their blades clashing, the sound ringing even in the muffled air, stopped by time. The man tumbles, grunts, and Flint jerks his knife, freeing it, the other blade singing in a way that hits him to his core. He doesn't stop to think about it, doesn't wait for the other party to recover before he's up, time resuming once again.

Flint jumps down the next landing, feet hitting stone and wood and moss and water. He looks up and around, the sweat gathering on his face and running rivers down his spine. He can feel his left hand ache and he shakes it. He refuses to do anything to answer that old ache because maybe, just _maybe_ his opponent hasn't realized yet, hasn't put two and two together--

A blast of wind barrels angrily towards him through the door ahead and he grinds his teeth, his arms covering his face before it hits him. Leaves and water slice into him as the wind rages past, angry as a typhoon on the Morleyan seas. He curses, being thrown off-balance and into a stone wall.

The breath is immediately knocked out and he heaves and coughs, shaking off the impact. He clenches his fist, heart hammering. He doesn't remember that attack feeling so _powerful_ , but it's been awhile, Outsider's Eyes, it's been _almost seven years_ since--

“And so we fight, the duel no two others could fight.”

The blood drains from Flint's face.

Before he can move, before he can do anything but process those words, the hooded figure is on him, shoving him back into the wall, the long knife at his throat. Flint winces, looking down on the face of Corvo Attano, eyes glittering like obsidian behind his curtain of black hair. His tone is as dark as his expression is furious, growling while he searches Flint’s face.

“Give me one good reason I shouldn't kill you right here and now, _Daud.”_  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S DAUD.
> 
> I don't think of ever tiring of introducing Daud in fiction in the most dramatic ways possible. It's just so fun, they're both so DRAMATIC.
> 
> I have been waiting to post this chapter since I wrote it almost two months ago. Now that it's published, I feel a great weight lift off my shoulders. Time to sleep for like, a day and a half now, haha.


	9. Hang Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Corvo and Daud suck at communication and the Knife is but an innocent bystander.

It isn't until Daud sees the look on the Royal Protector's face -- watching with wide, haunted eyes as Daud slides his blade into the chest of the Empress -- that he realizes with horror that he recognizes the man.

It isn't just that the man's face is so clearly _Serkonan,_ a fact alone that's enough to make Daud yearn for a day when he’s back under the Southern sun. It isn't just that killing the Empress felt wrong _\-- so wrong,_ to end the life of someone just trying to help her people. It isn't just the girl screaming as she watches her mother's last moments before Billie is grabbing her and he and his whalers are leaving without a sound.

No, it’s that stricken face, powerless against the gifts given to Daud by the Outsider, that follows the assassin and fills him with a sinking dread.

It’s the first moment in Daud's life that he knows, with crushing certainty, that he’s made a huge mistake.

The Outsider had once told Daud that he was important; that he would change the world. At the time, young and angry and naïve as he had been, he dreamed of grandeur, of what sort of monumental shift he alone could create. Back then, he believed he could do anything, drunk on the power of a literal god.

But killing an Empress? He never could have guessed that he would change everything like this.

_Not like this._

He wants to drown in the Wrenhaven. He almost does; contemplates it every night in the Flooded District from his perch on top of a statue of the late Jessamine Kaldwin herself. He knows it, his men know it. He’s falling apart.

_Nobody should have to kill an Empress._

When he next sees Corvo Attano, it’s almost seven months later, his body floating into the Flooded District on a boat with that mask on his face and that Mark on his hand and Daud _shudders._ He wonders what sort of deal the Outsider made with the Royal Protector as Daud takes that mask off, checking the man's pulse, weak and fluttering under his gloved fingers.

“Tyvian poison,” he mutters. “I know these symptoms well.” He then moves swiftly to save Corvo's life, knowing full well what will happen when the man wakes, when he remembers what happened, knows where he is...

But Daud can't let the Lord Protector go, not like this. Daud had killed an Empress-- a _mother--_ right before her daughter's eyes. He wasn't going to let that girl's Protector and rumored father die shamelessly in a pile of weepers, not if he could help it. So for a whole day, Daud and his Whalers nurse Corvo back to health. As Corvo weakly regains consciousness and finally looks Daud in the face, Daud sees recognition there-- but it's because Corvo knows Daud as Jessamine's killer, not someone else, _somewhere_ else, a whole lifetime ago.

“I wanted you to know, Royal Protector,” he starts, his rough voice falling like crumbling stone. “That you will beat this poison. And when you do, I want you to find me. If you truly mean to kill me, then I want your best performance.”

He leaves then, giving Corvo over to Misha’s care, and retiring to his place in the Flooded District. From there, he waits. He knows Corvo will come, and isn't as surprised as Thomas is when he reports to Daud that Corvo has escaped completely unseen, like a ghost. Daud surprises his second even more when he tells Thomas to leave him, because even if Thomas can't feel it, he can: that cold creep of fear up his spine as Death closes in.

When it finally comes, Daud is ready to face that Death. Alone.

Corvo duels him against time, both of them now wielding powers from the Outsider. Daud can't help but wonder what sick game the black-eyed bastard is playing, giving Corvo the Mark. Did the Royal Protector have a larger part to play as well, working as the bloody cleanser of Dunwall? He knows the reports, feels the fear from the Whalers when they go into the city. Corvo is more than Death: he is Judgement upon those around him, too. He chooses who lives and who dies, sparing and slaying, a grim and grisly folktale in the making.

Daud is sure he is going to die that night. Is prepared for it, even. While Corvo had slaughtered the city, Daud had found redemption: he had saved the future Empress and made his peace with his decisions. He thought he was ready for what was to come.

But he isn't ready, not for this.

Corvo _recognizes_ him.

He never says as much. True to Death itself, Corvo never says a word from behind that murderous mask. He doesn't need to; his form and stance speak for him, even as Daud taunts and yells and goads him on. “I want your best performance,” Daud had said, and Corvo all but gives it.

A well-timed hit-- a slash to the stomach-- and Daud goes down, bleeding heavily, completely at the mercy of Corvo's blade. Before Death, he pleads for his life, one last time. And amazingly, Death stills, listening to every word.

He then grabs at Daud's shirt, pulling him close to the blade, to that masked face that haunts his nightmares. Daud sucks in a breath, one that he knows will be his last, and savors the burn as he holds it in his chest.

Yet Death does not bloody his blade on the neck of the Knife of Dunwall.

They hang in reality for too many seconds. Corvo doesn't move much; despite the mask, Daud can't help but feel Corvo's eyes scanning his face, watching his every expression. Daud lets go of his breath carefully, afraid to fidget for the blade at his neck. He can't help the sneer, his soul tired of being weighed under the judgement of the city's personal Reaper.

“Just get it over with, Attano, and don't regret--”

A thumb runs over Daud's cheek, across the heavy scar that snakes through his right eye and curves down that side of his face. The words die in Daud's throat and he swallows, the bob of his throat just brushing over the blade. He doesn't move, even as a small trickle of blood runs down from the cut.

Corvo forcefully shoves Daud away from him and his weapon. Daud coughs, free to breathe again, wiping a gloved hand over his neck, checking the damage as he collapses to a knee.

“So you choose mercy. _Extraordinary.”_

He then summons the Void in his hand, stops time to transverse away, and plans to never see Corvo Attano ever again.

\------

Seven years later, and Corvo Attano stands before him, a blade to his throat, the Judgement of Death upon him again. It's a different face this time, though, and a different weapon; but the same man, the same duel, the same proposal.

The man who had hidden under the name Castor Flint coughs, groans, and lets out a careful breath. Corvo shoves his weight into the man he knows as Daud, keeping him pinned to the wall. The knife sings under Daud's chin, shaking him to his core. He looks down the length of the weapon and meets Corvo's angry gaze.

By the looks of it, Corvo had not planned on this meeting either.

“Well if this isn't all a bit ironic,” Daud mutters out, careful of the weapon at his neck. “A different assassin, a different bodyguard. The same confrontation. But will you make the same decision?”

“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” growls out Corvo, his voice hard and rough. It's not the smooth voice of the young man he had met in Serkonos so many years before, but it stirs something in Daud all the same.

He grimaces, squirming for purchase.

“And yet you didn't, Corvo,” he says evenly, despite the weapon at his throat. “I will give you the same line as last time: my life is in your hands. Do what you will with it.”

Corvo looks away and exhales hard, before flicking his burning eyes back to Daud. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because it's _my_ line, and you aren't allowed to take it like you did my other line earlier.”

 _“Damn you,_ Daud!” The ghost of a grin passes over Daud even as Corvo's anger makes him shove Daud harder against the wall. “Nobody else gives me the choice, because I make it for them. Why do you think you're special enough to ask?”

“I don't think I'm special. I'm nobody. And I deserve to die by your blade.”

Daud can tell it's his sincerity that makes Corvo falter. He breathes hard, adjusting his grip on the Knife. A curious device; Daud sees the runes on the hilt, sees the Void around the metal, and frowns.

“Give me one reason not to,” Corvo eventually chokes out, a repeat of his first question. “Before, you told me you were done killing and I let you leave to wallow in guilt, a punishment I thought worse than death. So tell me _why--”_

“If you need honesty, Corvo, then you shouldn't kill me because I'm the only one keeping Wyman Rodagh alive and breathing at the moment.”

Corvo flinches, his eyes wide and glaring.

 _“Wyman--_ is that a _threat,_ Daud?” He hisses out the question as a dangerous whisper. “What are you--”

“Outsider’s balls, Corvo, no, I'm -- I'm Wyman's bodyguard! _I'm Castor Flint!”_

Corvo shoves Daud back into the wall again before gracelessly dropping him with a curse. He paces the wet hallway, hands running through his long dark hair, dropping his hood. He clasps the Knife to his belt angrily and shakes out his left hand, muttering as if he's talking himself out of doing something damned stupid.

Daud rubs his neck gingerly, never taking his eyes off the Knife. He can feel the aura of Void surrounding it, can hear the ancient song emanating out, striking at his soul with every note. He looks from the Knife to Corvo, who is refusing to look Daud in the face, lost in his conflicting emotions.

Clearly, this is all a bit much for the both of them, and this isn't the place to have this sort of conversation. So, while Corvo is distracted, Daud squeezes his left hand, feeling the Mark under his glove burn as he calls out to Thomas from across the Void.

“Corvo,” Daud says, and Corvo turns back to him, all angry flames and burning embers. “Corvo, I have to get back to Wyman soon. And I'd like you to come with me.”

Corvo eyes him suspiciously.

“Go back with you, to Wyman.”

“Yes.”

Corvo hastily shakes his head. “No. I'm here covertly. I shouldn't break--”

“I know about that Knife.”

Corvo stiffens.

“And a lot of other things too, if you're willing to listen. You're not the only one who's been gaining intel for the last few years.”

Corvo opens his mouth to protest, but before he can, Thomas appears next to Daud, materializing silently from a mass of smoke and ash.

“Sir, you called? Is everything alright? Wyman is already worried and-- _oh.”_

Thomas immediately goes into a defensive stance as Corvo turns to see the the owner of the new voice. Corvo's eyes go wide in recognition upon seeing Thomas’ face, eyes flicking between him and Daud.

 _“Thomas?_ Wyman’s bodyguard in Dunwall? This whole time you worked for--” Corvo's fist clenches and unclenches, and Thomas notes this warily, rocking back on his heels, wanting desperately to distance himself from Corvo's incredulous stare.

Daud throws out an arm protectively, partially blocking Thomas with his body.

“He was there on _my_ orders, Corvo,” he growls out. Corvo's dark gaze fixates back to him, watching him with a new depth of suspicion. “If you're going to be mad at him for simply _doing his job,_ then be mad at me instead.”

 _“Really,_ Daud? You've been sending your Whalers to watch Wyman when they _visit Dunwall?”_

“Well, _I_ certainly _can't,_ but I'll be damned if Wyman isn't properly protected.”

“I swear to the Outsider, Daud, you better have a good explanation for this.”

“Er...sir?” Thomas eyes him cautiously and Daud waves a hand at Thomas to relax. “Is Lord Attano…?”

“Our man? Yes. The situation has been…” Daud's eyes flick to the bristling Corvo. _“Neutralized._ Call the others to stand down and resume normal patrol patterns. After that, go ahead of us and let Wyman know I'll be bringing a guest.”

Thomas straightens back up, his sandy head shaking as he looks between Daud and Corvo, a hint of trepidation behind his gaze. Daud nods towards him, all calm assuredness.

“I'll be fine. I can handle this.”

“Of course.”

Thomas then leaves as fast as he came, transversing off to do the job Daud assigned to him. Daud then turns back to Corvo, who is still watching him in a state of angered disbelief. Daud sighs, throwing his arms open in a shrug.

“Well?”

Corvo wrinkles his nose.

“Well, _what?”_

Daud rolls his eyes. “You can either kill me now, or follow me and get your explanation. So are you coming, or not?”

Corvo hesitates, but Daud is already turning to leave. He's had enough of death threats for the night, and this building is making him sweat worse than a whaler during Fugue. After a few measured steps towards the exit, Daud feels the rush of air as Corvo blinks over to join him.

“You better make this worth my time,” Corvo hisses out, his gruff voice low and dangerous. Maybe once upon a time, Daud would worry for his life at that subtle threat from Corvo Attano, but now he just laughs.

“It should help whatever you're here to find for the Empress. And besides, Wyman will be so happy to see you. They told me just how much they fancy Emily earlier today.”

The look that crosses Corvo's face makes giving that tidbit of information all the worthwhile and Daud grins at the sight of his emotional turmoil.

“And just as a reminder, Attano; My name is Castor Flint, and you've never seen my scarred, sorry excuse for a face before in your entire life.”

\------

“Flint! Thank the stars, you're alright!”

Daud approaches his charge with a smile, relieved to see Wyman in one piece, Thomas by their side. Wyman rushes forward, grabbing Daud's hand, checking over everything.

“Thomas said there was… a potential for trouble?”

“Yes, but it's been neutralized. Nothing to worry about.”

Wyman frowns, flattening their wet hair as the rain splatters down. “You aren't hiding any wounds like last time, are you?”

“No, I promise.”

“Thomas also mentioned a guest...” Wyman checks Daud's face, then looks behind Daud, searching for anyone of interest. Daud follows their gaze, a grin twitching into place.

Slowly, hood up to keep out the rain, the slim, tall figure of the former Royal Protector walks into view. Wyman gasps and their eyes grow big, a hand fluttering to their mouth.

“Wyman, I think you're familiar with Lord Corvo Attano?”

“Wyman Rodagh,” Corvo says, with a small smile and bow of his head. He holds out a hand but Wyman is already rushing forward, a flush on their cheeks.

“Lord Attano! I'm so sorry, I had no idea-- Emily said nothing of your arrival, didn't write ahead to let me know--” Wyman grasps his hand and shakes it fervently before motioning to Thomas, who is still holding the umbrella. Thomas starts, jumping to action and handing the umbrella over to Wyman, who shoves it into Corvo's hand.

Corvo blinks, thrown off.

“Wyman, it's okay, I'm here on official business, and this visit is unexpected. I'm not trying to intrude or--”

“No, _no,_ I insist, there's no way you're going to-- to hole yourself up in a rickety inn above some pub, not in this weather--”

Corvo tries to stammer out a protest but Wyman shoves him off, calling Daud over as they are pelted with rain.

“Flint, get the carriage ready, I've got everything I need here,” Daud nods and motions to Thomas, who makes himself scarce to transverse somewhere safer. All the while, Wyman fusses over a visibly flustered Corvo.

“Spirits, I can't believe you're _here,_ Lord Attano I'm so sorry, Emily is going to kill me if you die of cold--”

“Wyman, truly, it's okay, can we-- Can we chat more in the carriage?”

“Yes, yes, Flint-- how did you manage to find the Royal Spymaster, of all people!”

Daud's eyebrows shoot up, stretching his scars. _“Royal Spymaster,_ really?” he says, as Corvo glares at him briefly from over Wyman’s head. “Well it was just a happenstance, I was not even sure who it was when he approached me.”

“Well I'm glad, I'm-- Oh, good, the carriage is here.” Wyman shoves them all along and out of the rain, towards the carriage that just rolled up to the side street where they were located. Thomas opens the door from within, ushering them inside and out of the weather. Daud holds the door open, and Wyman lets Corvo climb in first before they follow, settling next to Thomas. Daud looks around before climbing in himself and shutting the door. The sound of rain persists outside, now muffled, as Daud turns to the driver, letting them know they are ready to go.

Corvo does his best to not look like a stiff wet rat next to Daud in the carriage. Daud can see his fists opening and closing, releasing tension. Wyman notices and grabs at his hands, gently holding them.

“Corvo, it's so good to see you again,” Wyman continues, looking flustered. Their free hand rakes through their fiery hair, moisture dripping down. “Please, pray tell, how long have you been in Morley? How long do you plan to stay? It's no matter either way, there's no way my father won't set up one of the guest rooms for you.”

Corvo gapes awkwardly, conversation never being one of his strong suits. Thomas and Daud exchange glances silently.

“If it's alright with you, Wyman, I'm fine with discussing this when we get to the estate? I'm not sure if I can confide that sort of information with--”

“Anything you tell me, Flint will eventually be privy to,” Wyman states, matter-of-factly. “I hide no secrets from him, so that he can best do his job.”

Corvo glances at Daud, who sits in the carriage placidly next to the Royal Spymaster, left ankle resting on his right knee. Corvo sighs through his nose before looking back to Wyman.

“All the same, my mission here is delicate. I've been here for a few weeks, and may be staying until the new year, depending. I can give more details-- _later.”_

Wyman's eyes glitter at the prospect of secret missions and matters of espionage. They nod though, their lips parting into a small smile. The young noble glances down and away, before flicking their eyes back to Corvo.

“How is Emily?”

Corvo shifts and Wyman looks as if they have more to say, but their words simply flutter and die in their throat. Whatever it is, they keep it to themselves, letting Corvo respond.

“She's well. The court life has never suited her, and she fidgets more than ever.” He squeezes Wyman’s hand briefly. “She is missing you, even if she doesn't say it. I can tell.”

Wyman looks down and away, flustered. But Wyman is also professional, and keeps their poise, a smile splitting their face.

“I'm glad to hear it, Lord Attano.”

“Please Wyman, I told you in Dunwall, you can call me Corvo.”

“Of course, I just-- respect and all--”

Corvo leans back, chuckling darkly in a way that Daud can relate to all too well.

“Trust me, Wyman, _respect_ isn't something nobles usually find me deserving of. I appreciate the sentiment all the same, but just Corvo is fine.”

“Well, _Corvo_ , I have sent a few of Flint's men ahead, and we'll have one of the guest rooms set up for you. When we get to the estate, we can show you to your room, get you something to eat, anything you need.”

“That won't be--” but Corvo pauses, restarting. “Thank you, Wyman, I appreciate the hospitality.”

Wyman nods, and the carriage falls into silence as they ride on, slowly reaching the Rodagh estate. The house itself is more of a refitted stone castle; the Rodagh family goes back quite a few centuries, and the old stone has since been renovated and added to as the family has grown through the generations. These days, the grounds are kept in condition through a number of servants, maids, and cooks, the house large enough to hold them all. There is also, of course, Daud and his men, and Wyman, their father, and their sister, and plenty of space for guests of the family whenever they come to visit.

It isn't long before the carriage enters the estate grounds, pulling up to where Rinaldo and Misha stand waiting at the front door. Wyman inclines their head when they see the other two bodyguards, smiling and jumping out before anyone else in the carriage can stop them. Thomas sighs and Daud rolls his eyes before climbing out, following the young noble. Behind him, Thomas and Corvo trot over, wanting to get out of the rain as quickly as possible.

“Rinaldo, Misha,” Daud nods, addressing them and they stand at attention, nodding back.

“Sir. We were just letting Wyman know that the guest room on the third floor is ready whenever the Spymaster is.”

“Excellent,” Daud finishes, and watches both Rinaldo and Misha stiffen as Corvo walks up, Thomas in tow. Daud nods to them and they both shift, relaxing out of their more defensive posture.

“Well, enough standing around, let's get inside, I'm tired of this rain.” Wyman says, unaware of the tense atmosphere. They lead the way into the house, pausing only to shake off their overcoat.

They all follow, with the bodyguards scattering to their respective rooms as they walk further into the Rodagh estate.

“We will have some food ready later-- Corvo, would you rather have us bring you something to your room, or will you join us for dinner tonight?”

“It's been a long day, and I'd like to retire early. Perhaps just bring it to the room?”

“Excellent! I'll point out the dining room so you know where it is for breakfast. I have to see to my father; Flint, could you see Corvo to his room?”

“Of course,” Daud says easily, lowering his head slightly. Wyman smiles and rests a hand on his arm before departing further into the house. Daud watches them go, trying to ignore the rising tide of anger behind him. He turns to see Corvo glowering, his eyes dark under the hair shadowing his face.

“I can find my room on my own, _Flint.”_ He spits the name out on the floor and Daud can tell he wants nothing more than to stomp it to dust. Daud just rolls his eyes and motions Corvo to follow. Corvo hesitates, then strides after him, long legs making him catch up easily.

The room isn't far off -- just two floors up and the third door on the right -- and they make the walk in a tense silence, the anger from Corvo a palpable being. Between them, the Knife resonates a single note that hangs in Daud's ear like tinnitus. He opens the guest door and Corvo walks in, looking around. Daud watches as Corvo's hand smokes briefly when he pulls it across his front. Once his room check is done, he looks back at the door, frowning as he sees Daud still standing there. He pulls the Void back from his eyes, grimacing when Daud refuses to leave.

“What, need something else?”

Daud lifts himself off the frame and walks in across the threshold, pulling the door closed behind him. He crosses his arms, his face turning stony.

“Yes, Attano. Some answers would be nice.” He points to Corvo's belt. “Like why you have that Void-damned artifact, for starters.”

Corvo tenses, his hand flying to his belt, gripping the hilt of the Knife.

“You first,” he growls out.

Daud blinks. “Me?”

“Yes, you, _Daud,”_ he snarls, eyes lit with an angry fire. “Knife of Dunwall, now Wyman's bodyguard. Really, _Wyman,_ of all people? And under a different name? What kind of sick game are you trying to pull here?”

Daud blinks again, tilting his head as his arms uncross. “I'm here doing what I said I would, what I promised I would; _I left Dunwall._ I fled the city and I came here. After that, I saved Wyman's life and they _insisted_ I work for them.”

Daud shakes his head and laughs dismissively at Corvo. “Trust me, it's not as exciting or as devious as you think it is.”

“And the fact that Wyman is close to the crown had nothing to do with your decision?”

Daud clenches his jaw, looking away. Corvo's eyes flash dangerously at him, his lip curling.

“I should kill you here and now for spying on the crown--”

“Fuck, Corvo, you're just _itching_ to justify putting that blade to my throat, aren't you?” Daud snarls out, and Corvo sneers back, the both of them like two wolfhounds, bristling, trapped in the same cage.

Daud is the first to lower his hackles, taking a breath.

 _“Yes,_ I was in Wynnedown and I heard one of the noble houses speaking of visiting Dunwall and the young Empress. So when they got back, I listened for word, and then that young noble was attacked by radicalists. And-- I _stopped_ the assassination.”

“Why, so you could cozy up to a friend of the crown? Send your men to Dunwall in your stead?”

“I've been in Wyman’s employ for over four years, Attano. Thomas for three. I did it to _protect_ the crown, not undermine it!”

Corvo frowns, processing that information. He relaxes, hand still steady on the hilt of his weapon. When he isn't pounced upon, Daud continues.

“I've been collecting information while I've been here, and I'm guessing a lot of what I've been tracking is also what you've most assuredly been sent to find.”

Daud gestures and paces slightly while he explains. Corvo silently watches him, face unreadable while he listens.

“There's been multiple attacks on nobles and groups here in Morley; many of which have been directed at Wyman and their family. Before I came in their employ, their mother had been one of those victims. Since then, I've been trying to bring down those responsible before they get to Wyman, and by extension, Emily.”

“Why do you even care about Emily and what happens to her?”

“I originally was keeping an eye on her to make sure an old foe didn't return and try to attack her again,” Daud states, missing the shocked look on Corvo's face. “Instead, I got swept up in this new threat, one that may be linked to the assassination attempt in the Draper's Ward--”

“Old foe?” Corvo interrupts, and Daud stops, realizing what Corvo is getting at. He wheels around and faces the other man, a strange expression darkening Corvo's features. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, I took care of it. You were a little…” he searches for the right word. _“Busy_ at the time, scouring half the city in a sort of righteous cleansing by fire.”

“You mean _after_ you _\-- why the fuck --_ You kill an Empress and _then_ decide to grow a conscience?!” Corvo takes an angry step forward, the Knife humming threateningly from his hip.

Daud holds his ground and doesn't look away from the furious storm building behind Corvo's eyes.

“The Outsider gave me a name,” he growls out evenly. “And I followed it. It let me make my peace so that when you came to kill me, I'd die, with no regrets.”

“You bastard,” Corvo whispers, acidic. He grips the Knife, his hand smoking. All at once, the room closes in on the two of them, the atmosphere thickening. Daud grunts; the Knife rings violently in his skull, the pressure of it bringing him to his knees. He grits his teeth, struggling to keep contact with that snarling face.

“What sort of disgusting guilt is this? Why would you care-- _Emily is nothing to you!”_

“But she's everything to you.”

The silence that follows is permeable. All at once, reality returns to normal, and the Knife releases its unrelenting grasp on Daud. He gasps, the pressure lifting from him too quickly, leaving him sweaty and lightheaded, his heart hammering in his ears. He chances a look at Corvo; he is shaking, his eyes wide and dangerous above Daud. His hand trembles on the hilt of the weapon he's still grasping like a lifeline.

Daud's stomach drops.

He's said too much.

“Lord Attano,” he says, and bows his head before clenching his fist and transversing out of the room. He ends up on the roof; he takes a shaky breath before clenching his trembling hand again, desperately clawing for the Void to carry him far away from Corvo's room. He transerves without stopping until he finally collapses on the balcony of his quarters, his knee giving out as it collides with unyielding stone. His body shakes from the exertion, and he pants, the sweat dripping from his brow as he punches his fist down.

Stupid. _Stupid._

He hears his balcony door open, followed by a gasp and strong hands reaching for his doubled-over form.

“Sir! Is everything alright? Did Corvo--”

“I'm fine,” he manages, his voice rough. “He didn't hurt me. I was just reckless and overexerted myself coming back.” He allows Thomas to lift him up, leaning against the door frame to his balcony once he's found his feet.

“You certainly seem... _shaken_ by this, sir.” Daud hates that he can hear the worry in Thomas' voice. He grimaces, walking into his quarters. He wrings out his still-burning hand, trying to make the deep-seated ache leave his limb.

“It's fine,” he repeats, more forcefully. “Just-- be careful. Corvo is on edge, and that Knife isn't helping his temper. We don't know how long he'll be here, but I want conflict to remain at a minimum. For Wyman's sake.”

Thomas nods, hazel eyes watching Daud carefully. “Do you want me to keep an eye on him?”

Daud shakes his head. _Spirits,_ he needs a damn cigarette. “Don't worry about him. He won't be a problem for Wyman. It's me he's upset with. Just retire for the night; I'll keep watch. I'm not sleeping any time soon anyway.”

Thomas nods. “Sir,” is all he says, before he disappears in a whisper of ash and smoke. As soon as he's alone, Daud curses, stalking his room before grabbing a cigarette and lighting it on the balcony. He takes a deep drag and leans against the railing, shaking his head as his thoughts reel.

He shouldn't have said that. Of all the damned things to tell Corvo, that was the last on his list. Him saving Emily wasn't something he wanted _\-- out there._ It was a good deed that didn't need to be known because he didn't do it for righteousness points.

It was just-- Once he knew what was going on, once he knew what Delilah planned, if he hadn't stopped it--

 _No,_ he tells himself, taking another drag from the cigarette before letting the smoke out through his nose. _Don't need to go down that thought path again._

He grimaces and throws the cigarette off the balcony. His left hand is already itching again, the crawl of the Void hot in his veins and heart. He clenches his fist again, transversing up to the tallest spire of the estate, then to the next closest rooftop, making his way around the estate in a well-traveled pattern.

He circles the grounds for hours, burning off energy, and dreading having to see those dark, livid eyes come morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :))))) Until next week!


	10. Ultimatum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something's gotta give.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta windsweptfic -- who is writing the wonderful [Cullero Red, Karnaca Blue](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12673986/chapters/28892514) and if you aren't reading it you SHOULD BE -- wanted me to note that this chapter mentions animal cruelty in passing. Specifically, the whale in Rothwild Slaughterhouse, because Daud reminisces on it. Not enough to tag in my opinion, and not really a spoiler (outside of unexpected feelings about whales) but it is worth pointing out! I mean essentially I just have a lot of feelings about the Marked and whales.

The weather finally breaks by morning.

For once, the city of Wynnedown is blessed with sunshine, and the heat of it evaporates the night's rain in clouds of low-hanging mist. It paints a rare image of the city, glowing in the morning light, the fog hanging on for a few more hours before eventually dissipating in the heat of the day. Daud wakes groggy all the same, the humidity left over from the rain weighing on him like a blanket. His poor sleep from the night before doesn't help his motivation to get up, especially when he remembers who and what is waiting for him downstairs.

He groans, pressing the heel of his palm into his eye socket, a headache already forming. Most certainly it's a leftover gift from the ringing in his ears and the vice-like pressure the Knife had exerted on him the night before. Not the greatest way to start the day, certainly, but he's definitely had worse.

He can make it through this.

He gets up, showers, dresses, and heads down to the dining area of the estate. Wyman -- as attuned to Daud's footsteps as ever -- is already looking for him before he walks into the expansive room. At the near end of the long table, Corvo looks over various documents, thumbing through and skimming their contents.

Daud notes the Knife at his side before flicking back to Corvo's face. Corvo meets Daud's stare with a dark smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

“Flint, good to see you awake! Corvo and I were just going over some trade matters.” Daud walks with Wyman further into the room and helps himself to the multitude of foods already weighing the table down. “We're seeing if we can't consolidate shipments and prices to better stock Gristol of whale oil, and perhaps expand to other Isles, especially Serkonos.”

“Hmm, your dad will be happy with that,” Daud says absently, eyeing Corvo out of his peripheral vision. While Daud watches, Corvo steals no less than three confidential documents and stores them in his overcoat. Daud's lip twitches, amused. “But tariffs and taxes have been higher this year, and pirate activity has been worse in Serkonos. Perhaps if we had a better way to conceal cargo…”

“We could possibly help with that,” Corvo says conversationally, walking over and grabbing an apple. “Dunwall has been working on a synthetic version of whale oil, to cheapen production and take pressure off of whale stocks. It isn't going well, but it's great for concealing the real, valuable deal; if your ships dock in Dunwall first, we can unload the authentic whale oil off the boats and supply it with fake oil in its place. Send the fake whale oil off first; that way if the Duke of Serkonos needs his whale oil shipments unharmed, the boats with bad whale oil will get hit first, and the pirates will lose out and take a major blow to their forces.”

“Why do I feel like this has Piero written all over it,” Daud mumbles, and Corvo laughs, taking a bite out of the apple. He swallows, brandishing the fruit, before responding.

“That's probably because it does. Ever since the rat plague, he's been trying to recreate a version of whale oil, without much success. Looks the part but burns up almost instantly while still inside the canister. It’s extremely volatile and utterly useless as a fuel source, but it may just come in handy if pirates don't know the difference since it has very... _explosive_ results.”

Daud chews on that knowledge, nodding. It's a sound theory, but--

“How much does it cost to manufacture? And is it possible to make the chemical here, in Morley? Would Joplin even be willing to sell the formula?”

“Fairly cheaply, since that's Joplin's other goal. To make the synthetic more affordable for wider commercial use, he's been using easy-to-procure ingredients. Right now, though, it's only a cheap imitation that doesn't fulfill the promise on the package. Instead, Dunwall is working on using the synthetic to mask large whale oil shipments from unwanted parties, and Pierro gets some coin out of it.”

“Sounds like it will be worth speaking to the capitol about, then. With the whale shortages causing enough problems as is, we can't afford losing more profits to pirates.”

Wyman nods, listening, taking notes while the two of them talk.

“That settles it then; I'll look into this further and talk to my father about it, maybe even touch base with the king and queen on their thoughts before the end of the year.”

They fold their notes carefully, putting the paper in a secure pocket before turning to Daud.

“If it's alright with you, Corvo asked to come along to the slaughterhouses today. He said he wanted to see what a routine day is like for us; maybe even be able to give Emily some diplomatic pointers.” Wyman grins, rolling their eyes at that last bit, and Daud can't help but smirk. Emily? Maybe. But the one who really needed help in diplomatic affairs was probably Attano himself.

“That's fine with me, it won't interfere with my men or their schedule today.”

Wyman beams, green eyes alight. “Excellent! The carriage is almost ready, so I'll see you down there in about a half an hour, after I show this to my father.”

“Of course,” Daud says, dipping his head in Wyman’s direction. Wyman then waves goodbye to Corvo, who inclines his head in return, holding the pear he was hoping to devour behind his back. As Wyman leaves, Daud's sigh is long-suffering as he turns to Corvo.

“How much stuff have you already snitched, Attano?” he asks, exasperated. Corvo flinches mid-bite, clears his throat.

“No idea what you're talking about, Flint.”

“Don't play dumb with me, I still remember you picking the Flooded District clean. If you have to take anything, keep it to the father's quarters. Wyman admires you, and they'll find it the height of amusement if you stole all their father's priceless heirlooms from right under his nose.”

Corvo scowls at him and Daud just shrugs, grabbing some cheese for his bread before walking off to meet with his men. He goes over the schedule of the day with Thomas, Rinaldo, and Misha, and can't help but feel Corvo watching them, listening to every word.

If anything, Daud is amused; for all the threatening air Corvo keeps throwing at him, it's laced with more curiosity than yesterday. Daud is determined to pay him no mind though -- and to let things lie if Corvo tries to get a rise out of him.

Thankfully, the carriage ride is placid and Corvo keeps things cordial with Wyman and Daud. Corvo speaks mostly with Wyman, conversing more on the matters from the morning, with Daud interjecting here or there with ideas or questions the other two may have overlooked or forgotten. Daud can see from the way Wyman lights up when hearing the Spymaster talk that they love hearing his new perspective.

When they eventually get out to walk through the streets towards their destination, Daud lingers a few paces behind, an ear on their conversation and an eye on his men and surroundings.

It’s instantaneous now, how Daud slips into his typical mindset when working. He follows close, only half listening to Corvo and Wyman’s conversation, instead concentrating on the world around him from an assassin’s perspective. Within the first few minutes he's identified all major blind spots and ambush points in the area; Thomas and Misha transverse along the rooftops, checking each area individually. As they work from above, he keeps an eye on ground level, watching each person in passing, cataloging expressions and interest. He makes mental notes on the shops that are closed today, the ones that are open; he picks up on the smell of smoke, of sewage, of the rainwater swelling the gutters with debris from last night's storm. He picks out his men from the crowd, gets the all clear, and lets his heart relax, if just a little.

If an assassin is going to try anything, it isn't going to be today. He’s sure of it.

With the surrounding area posing no potential threats, Daud finds his attention turning to the only other items of interest: Wyman and Corvo. He lets out a relieved sound knowing that Corvo truly holds no animosity towards Wyman; with the young noble, Corvo speaks freely and animatedly, more at ease with himself than he was yesterday. His relaxed state has Daud eying Corvo suspiciously; the man was about to kill him twice inside of 12 hours, yet now is acting as if killing Daud is the furthest thing from his mind.

Daud also takes note that Corvo clearly spent time cleaning up today; he's clean shaven now, showered, with a smooth gait and warm smile. Daud's gaze lingers -- he notices other things too, like how Corvo looks even more wiry in build than the last time he saw him, which was after six months of torture in Coldridge.

He frowns slightly, turning that over in his mind.

His eye then catches the Twin-Bladed Knife on Corvo's hip, swaying with his step and glinting in the light. As if it notices his wandering gaze, the Knife rings in his ears, reverberating in his chest. He grunts, looking away from the weapon, the sound cutting off as he does so.

Daud brings his eyes back up to see Corvo watching, and his scowl deepens. Something akin to amusement flashes across Corvo's features before they cloud over once again.

“Flint? Everything alright?” Wyman's smooth voice cuts through his buzzing thoughts, and he looks to them, nodding.

“So far so good, Wyman. It's shaping up to be a quiet day, I'm afraid.”

“Good to hear. The slaughterhouse shouldn't be too far now; I can already smell the whale oil…”

Daud can feel his Mark itching, begging to be used, but he just scratches at his hand instead, scowling all the while. Something eats at him, and he isn't sure if it's the Knife, the lack of an engagement, or Corvo's behavior. He considers it may just be all of the above.

He has his suspicions, but decides to keep them to himself, for now. Eventually though, he'll have to confront Corvo directly and the blade at his hip, but just how that will be achieved with zero bloodshed, he isn't yet certain.

He's so far into his own thoughts that he only just registers when they get to the slaughterhouse on the edge of the city. Close by, the ocean crashes into the towering cliffs, spraying a cool breeze over the building and its wares. Despite the fair weather and relentless waves, Daud can still hear the sad siren call of whale song, and it only gets worse as they enter the huge building. He shudders against the haunting lament, the notes reverberating in his head and heart, taking him unwillingly to a place far away, of suspended rock and water that flows upwards.

It's Wyman’s soft voice that reels him in, gently bringing him back to warm earth and away from the Void’s penetrating cold.

“I'll be heading into the meeting now,” Wyman is saying, watching Daud carefully.

As they always do when nervous, they fidget, smoothing and fixing clothing--on both themselves and sometimes on others as well. Daud relaxes, letting Wyman straighten his collar and do up one of his buttons.

“Do you think I should bring up the synthetic whale oil as a disguise tactic?”

Daud gives them a soft look. “My advice is to wait until we send word to Emily and talk to the king and queen about it. We don't want to be counting our wolfhounds before they whelp.”

Wyman thinks that over, chewing on their bottom lip, before nodding. “You're right. I'll keep it to the unaltered notes then. Will Thomas…”

“There's always an eye and ear on you, Wyman.”

They relax considerably, letting their shoulders fall forward before straightening back up. They meet Daud’s eye and he nods, nudging them on. Wyman walks off and enters the meeting room, leaving Daud and Corvo to wait outside.

Thinking of Corvo, Daud turns to find him leaning against the railing, arms crossed, watching the whales down below, awaiting their inevitable fate. One of the whales keens loudly and Corvo closes his eyes -- shaken, no doubt, feeling the beast’s pain viscerally just as Daud is. Daud breathes out, also glancing down at the sad creature sentenced to death.

He remembers once, years ago, infiltrating the Rothwild slaughterhouse in Dunwall. He had found a tortured beast while there, still lingering in this world. It had looked him in the eye and Daud had felt its ancient spirit, his Marked hand brushing its body, touching the depth of its soul.

His Mark had burned terribly and all at once, he had lurched, unsteady, beside himself with the heavy sorrow, the deep lament of the whale bearing down on him, shaking him to his very bones. The pain it had endured, the hopeless song it sung; it had flooded Daud until his heart and head were moments from drowning. He had felt more than heard the whale’s last request, had found himself nodding to an unspoken command, had loaded the oil of its dead brethren into place and had faithfully flipped the switch. Electricity surged through beast and the relief that it had felt washed over him, crashing against him like a wave breaking. It was all he could do to stop himself from being dragged down into the Void after the huge leviathan, fighting an ethereal undertow.

He had renounced killing by that point, had turned away from the assassin's lifestyle. But giving that beast death had been a mercy. There had been no hope for it -- hanging by hooks in a slaughterhouse, escape being an impossibility -- and Daud never regretted granting that whale its sweet release from the mortal coil.

He pulls himself back into the present, gripping the railing, watching the still-suffering whales, not yet culled. He can tell from their voices that they are not old, learned whales, like his had been. They don't understand what's happening to themselves, or what they will become for the selfish schemes of men. They still dream of hope as they endlessly cry for their far-off families.

Daud lets out a ragged sigh and looks away from the whales and the pain they carry. Instead, he glances over at Corvo, finding the other man watching him curiously, carefully. Daud stiffens under his gaze, scowling, the leather of his glove creaking as he grips the railing tighter.

“You hear it too, don't you,” Corvo says, his voice sounding far away. His eyes are not really focused too closely on Daud, but on something else, somewhere else.

Daud nods.

“Yes. I'm certain the death of the whales affects us more than they do everyone else.”

 _Us._ Those who are Marked, is what he means, those favored by the whale god Itself. He doesn't have to say that to Corvo, though; not when he too feels the cry of the beasts as intimately as he does.

They both share a collective shudder as a whale is killed, its spirit fleeing to the Void.

“Damnit,” Corvo says softly, his chest heaving. Daud doesn't say it, but he shares the sentiment all the same.

“Try having one beg you to kill it.” Daud laughs out under his breath. “How do you say no to that? The song still follows me in my dreams.”

They stand there together for a few silent beats, swallowed in the lament of the Leviathans.

Daud sucks air deep into himself, breaking the surface, planting his feet firmly back in reality.

“What are you really doing in Morley, Corvo?”

Corvo twitches, turning to him. He scowls.

“You already know the answer to that.”

Daud scoffs. “Getting as far away as you possibly can from Dunwall, so you can play hero with no repercussions on Emily?”

“That's not what I--” Corvo glowers, taking a deep breath. “I'm here because there's whispers of a threat to the crown originating in Morley. So, _as Spymaster,_ I'm here to investigate. From what you told me last night, you're looking into the same group.”

“It didn't originate here,” Daud says, matter-of-factly. “But it _is_ gaining steam here faster than it is elsewhere, thanks to you.”

Corvo glares. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

Daud shrugs casually. “It means word gets around, and when it does, I hear about it.”

“I’m here on official business,” Corvo responds, sneering. “And you _aren't._ I don't need your help on this, even if our goal is similar. I already decided to deal with this alone; I have for the last few weeks and I don't see that changing.”

Corvo rolls his shoulders casually, not meeting Daud's eye.

“Though, after this, I'll have to decide if I want to tell Emily her _mother's killer_ is now acting as Wyman’s _guard dog--”_

Daud bristles and Corvo stills, catching himself before he goes any further. Daud inhales, sharp and deadly.

“Threatening me with _that_ insult? That's rich, coming from you.”

“You know I didn't meant it like--”

“No, go on, _Spymaster,”_ Daud sneers, leaning closer. “Tell me how being under Wyman has finally blunted my blade, filed my teeth, domesticated the wolf of men.” His voice is dangerous, low and grating. _“Please,_ tell me all those things you heard, back when this was still your job, from every noble surrounding you.”

Corvo swallows, not meeting Daud's eyes, and says nothing else. Daud takes a breath, knowing he's rising to bait he shouldn't be taking. Still, old habits die hard; he can't stop himself and darkly jabs at Corvo yet again.

“Look, I get it; it must grate so heavily against you to even think I'm better at gathering information than you are, but I've been doing this a long time. I just happen to be better at this whole bodyguard thing too--”

There it is: Corvo's eyes flash, sending daggers at Daud. Between them, over the tension of their shared anger, over the sad cries of dying whales, the Knife thrums to life. The grating ring bounces between them, sounding of metal dragging against metal. Daud bristles at the way the Knife pulls at him, almost goading him, _daring_ him to lunge, to attack Corvo and fight him to the ground, just so Corvo can make a bloody mess of him, here amongst the dying whales.

It's almost like the Knife wants nothing more than to see Daud kill himself on it’s blade.

The realization hits him and he reels back, exhaling hard. It's like he's pulling his head out of water, the air reaching his lungs in hot desperate gasps. He breaks out in a cold sweat, panting, his Mark smoking. He glances at Corvo, breath hitching as he does.

Corvo's eyes are alight and looking far off, the Knife still reverberating on his hip, shaking like a tuning fork. Daud growls, and focuses on the song of the whales, lets it fill him over the ancient music of the Knife.

“Corvo.”

No response. 

“Damnit, _Corvo!”_

His eyes flick to Daud, his gaze piercing right through him. Daud grimaces, digs deeper.

“Listen to the whales, Corvo. Think about _Jessamine,_ Corvo.”

This has the intended effect Daud hopes for; after a moment of silent realization, Corvo cracks through his haze, blinking. He looks around, taking a breath, steadying himself as a few tears fall from his eyes.

“How about you never do that again,” Daud growls out, and Corvo scowls at him.

“What--”

 _“How about this,”_ Daud cuts through, voice rising. This situation is worse than he thought, than he had ever assumed-- “I haven't forgotten how you avoided my question last night, and maybe you don't realize how pressing this Knife problem is, but it's gonna be pretty fucking pressing real damn soon.”

Corvo frowns, moves to interject, but Daud holds a hand up, halting him.

“I don't give a flying fuck if you want to do your job without my help. Go on; be stubborn. I don't care, it'll bite you in the ass like it always does.”

Daud steadies himself, takes a breath.

“But you _will_ need help with that damned Knife, and I know more about it than you do. _Don't fight me on this, Corvo--”_ he says sharply, seeing Corvo trying to protest again. “The Knife isn't a toy, it's the Void itself. And I swear to the Outsider that if you lose control and that Knife decides it wants to kill Wyman, I'll bring you down on my own blade so fast you won't know you're dead until you're ass deep in the Void and the black-eyed bastard’s dancing on your entrails.”

Corvo stares. Daud holds up a finger.

“One week. See what you can do with one week, _Spymaster._ See if you can learn more about Morley and that Knife than I have, prove me wrong. Until then, keep that shit away from me, and keep it out of my Void-damned head.”

Corvo watches him, mildly stunned, listening. It's as if he had forgotten momentarily who Daud was, thought the Knife of Dunwall was gone when he lives and breathes everyday, just below the surface.

_Powerful. Invincible._

He pulls from those feelings now, talking Corvo into his place.

Still, stubborn and brooding as he is, Corvo scoffs at him, defensive.

“I'll just steal your documents and learn what's going on that way.”

“Good luck, Attano. Your tricks are my tricks; I've already prepared for them.”

Corvo glowers. “We aren't that similar, _Flint.”_

“Says the bodyguard-turned-assassin to the assassin-turned-bodyguard. Who both also happen to be Marked. And also Serkonan. And also—”

Corvo snarls, cutting Daud off. His fist clenches, his hand wrapping straining against the force of it.

“Okay, _fine, I get it._ You'll get your week. I'll work alone for seven days. I prefer to work that way, anyway.”

“Good. Now get the fuck out of my face, Attano.”

“With pleasure,” he says, before stalking outside. Daud breathes deep, in and out, watching the whales, and waits.

Five minutes later, Wyman emerges from their meeting, a smile splitting their face as they animatedly say their goodbyes. They spot Daud, who meets them with a small, tired smile. They look around, eyes glancing, their smile faltering.

“Oh, where's Corvo?”

“He's waiting outside; wanted to get some air. If you're all set we can join him?”

“Of course,” Wyman says, and finishes their goodbyes. They leave the slaughterhouse and find Corvo leaning on the wall, casually reading something he undoubtedly picked up off of an unsuspecting passer-by. He smiles at Wyman, and nods darkly to Daud.

“Flint.”

“Attano.”

Pleasantries. Relaxed attitudes. Playing normal. Daud wants nothing more than to spit on Corvo's feet.

He doesn't. Instead, they head off to their next destination as if nothing is wrong, never making note of the cloud now hanging over them, a threatening storm looming on the horizon of a sunny Morleyan day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ONE WEEK. 
> 
> And with this chapter, I switch over to a weekly schedule instead of twice-a-week. Mostly so I can get my life back in order, mostly because I need to finally wrap up my final chapters and post some other things in the meantime. As always, I look forward to questions and comments! You all have been incredibly encouraging, thank you. ;w; I am also very glad people are enjoying Wyman, they matter a great deal to me.
> 
> Next week! And until then, I'll see you in the Void~


	11. Pawns to Queens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's play a game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Wyman. 
> 
> Whenever someone new in my comments mentions how pure and good Wyman is, three more kittens find a home.

Living with Daud and his men is nothing short of _infuriating._

The last time Corvo had been this close to Daud and his assassins, he had been poisoned by a group of men who he thought his allies. The Loyalists broke him out of prison to escape death for a crime he didn't commit, only to become so terrified of him they wished death upon him themselves. He knew too many things, was too much of a threat--so they tried eliminating him, only to find he was just too stubborn to die. They set him adrift into the Flooded District, half-dead and delirious from the venom creeping in his veins, hoping he would perish there and never return.

It was just Corvo's luck that the Whalers happened to find him, and just his luck that Daud himself knew a thing or two about Tyvian poisons.

Daud could have killed him, then. Corvo almost half expected it; he was the last real threat Daud had to deal with. Besides, Daud had to have known Corvo wanted to kill him, wanted to make him bleed for what he did to the Empress for a pile of coin. Why not deal with the final loose end, brought straight to Daud in such a washed-up state?

But Daud did not end Corvo's life. Instead, he helped his men extract the poison from his body, talking to Corvo as he recovered, mentioning the Mark, how they both had a mutual friend whispering to them in their dreams. Whenever Corvo had a fleeting moment of consciousness, Daud's face was there, hovering, muttering words Corvo didn't always remember.

It wasn't until Corvo fully awoke that Daud gave him the final ultimatum. “If you mean to kill me, bring your best performance,” he had said, blinking away, leaving Corvo in a hole to ponder his fate.

Corvo had understood, then, as feverish as his mind and body still were, that he wasn't alive for coin or for bounty. Corvo was alive so that he had a chance to be the one to kill Daud.

Corvo was alive because Daud _wanted_ to die.

Yet, when the opportunity arose and the moment was ripe, Corvo hesitated. The blade was there, poised for the kill, and yet no blood was spilt from Daud's neck. Instead, Corvo had touched the gnarled scar on Daud's face and realized he recognized the man underneath. The words of the Heart whispered in his ear, over and over.

_“His hands do violence, but there is a different dream in his heart”._

Corvo pulled his sword away and let him live.

Damn it all, he let the man -- the assassin who had killed the woman he loved -- _live_.

Daud fled and Corvo stood there in that cursed district for far too long, limbs shaking from fatigue, residual poison, and something else -- the realization that he had _known_ Daud once, long ago. He thought it was just another Fugue Feast, when the still-young-and-cocky Corvo Attano had dueled the _true_ greatest swordsman of all the Isles--had danced with him, even, more than once.

But it had been so long ago, and he never thought…

To be fair, he hadn't noticed at first. How could he, when he was so worried about his Empress dying in his arms? The face he knew from Serkonos had been young, fresh, sharp; not steely and scarred. It wasn't until they exchanged blows that everything came back to Corvo--the spinning swing, the unconventional stance, the fast movements, the quiet corrections hidden amongst the loud goading. All of it, nudging him towards bettering his swing, hardening his hit.

Suddenly Corvo was winning only because the other swordsman taught him how to win, and following through on his advice.

Two for two, Corvo beat Daud: once in Karnaca, once in Dunwall. Two for two, he let Daud live. And two for two, he was left with more questions than answers.

He'd killed so many in Dunwall without a second thought, the Heart guiding him, steadying his blade. Pedophiles, murderers in the streets, guards who beat their wives, crown conspirators-- Corvo had no remorse for them, had no regrets for the justified blood he spilled. So what made Daud so different?

He pulled every secret he could from the Heart about the man in his quest to understand _._

_Why have you brought me here?_ The device had asked him, full of sorrow. _To justify my blade,_ he had silently begged, but the Heart instead told him of a quiet boy with strong, quick hands, abducted and stolen from his home. A man with aspirations, who pulled the downtrodden from the streets, gave them purpose. A man who did violence but did not revel in it.

Corvo hated the Heart then, angry with its vague responses. It was as if the Heart itself could not bear to see Daud die, even if it could never forgive him. Instead it almost appeared to feel _sorry_ for the assassin, as he lingered and punished himself over the murder he committed.

But that didn't matter; Daud was ready to die. Daud asked, even, for a death from Corvo personally.

So why could Corvo _still_ not give him the death he asked for? The death that even Daud himself felt he deserved? What is it, time and again, that stays Corvo's hand?

_“There is no turning back from the path he has chosen.”_

Corvo grimaces in the present, looking away from the form of Daud below him, conversing with Wyman as they often do in the evenings. Corvo has situated himself high in the rafters of the estate’s paddock, listening to Daud and Wyman discuss a new protective fabric Wyman is designing. Corvo sighs, arms and legs crossed; only half-listening to the conversation, he glances over to the opposite corner of the stable. An unmoving form stands there like an owl: Thomas, keeping an eye on him from a distance.

One of Daud's men is always watching Corvo from somewhere--many of them perched in places where he has a clear visual on them, as if they never planned on hiding from him in the first place. Perhaps they just think it futile to hide, or maybe it is a threat tactic, meant to let Corvo know that nothing he does is secret.

Corvo frowns at Thomas, who keeps a steady gaze on him before transversing off to a new location. He and the other ex-Whalers all interact with Corvo one of three ways: cordially, from a distance, or not at all. Even in the Flooded District they had been loathe to engage him. Perhaps it's because they knew he could kill them easily. Perhaps it's because Daud told them to keep their distance.

Perhaps it’s a little bit of both.

Truth be told, the assassi _\--the bodyguards_ are a bit of a mystery to Corvo. Their unwavering loyalty is a completely foreign concept to him. He always figured it was the magic of the Arcane Bond that Daud shared with them, giving them their abilities, that kept them loyal.

But these bodyguards, these men -- Thomas, Rinaldo, and Misha -- followed Daud here. Does that mean their loyalty isn't simply a magical farce? Do they share something with Daud that goes deeper than just the Mark on the assassin's left hand? Do they actually _care_ about the fate of this man?

And then there’s Wyman. The noble clearly trusts Daud with everything: they put their life into Daud's hands, giving Daud all their secrets, and Daud gives back a kind patience Corvo would have never thought him capable of. The worst part is he cannot yet tell if Daud's affections are just part of his Castor Flint persona, using this to pull more information from the young noble, or if it is a genuine feeling of fondness.

It is so much easier for Corvo to assume the former because the latter just leaves him... _baffled._

He can't help but wonder what Wyman would think if they knew Daud's dark and bloody past. What they would have to say, if they knew the hands they trusted so deeply have killed more than they've ever saved?

_But then,_ the whisper of a soft voice asks him, _How many lives have you saved? How many more have you bloodied on your blade?_

He clenches his fist.

_That's different,_ he tells the voice silently. _Those people deserved their fate. Jessamine didn't._

_The Empress_ was _different,_ the ghost whispers back, and he swallows, pushing it away into his mind. He doesn't have the Heart's counsel now. There is no reason to pretend he still did.

Below him, Wyman and Daud have moved on, back inside for the evening. Quietly and without spooking the Morleyan horses down below, he blinks out of the paddock and ahead of the pair, making it back inside the estate proper well before they do. It will be time for dinner soon, and Corvo still needs to drop off what he had collected for the day.

For the past week, per Daud's challenge, Corvo has been scouring Wynnedown for anything that might point towards a mounting retaliation against the crown. Much to his frustration, he didn't find more than he had in his first few weeks of being here. Despite Morleyans having a blunt and emotional personality about them, they still cover their tracks well. Whatever is being planned, the players are good at keeping it on the downlow.

Despite this, Corvo still managed to magpie an impressive stash of information, even if nothing is definite or certain--at least, not yet.

He chews at his inner cheek as his boots hit his room’s balcony, pulling out the documents he procured. Most are boat schedules: in and out of port, whaler hauls, wool and food stores. Nothing of note, no recurring names. Nothing even remotely close to a conspiratorial breakthrough. He throws the papers on his increasingly littered desk, not bothered enough to sort through everything right now.

Propped against the desk, quiet and placid, the Knife waits for him. It thrums as he nears and he glances down at it, frowning. For the past couple of outings, he's been trying to make do without it--using a blade provided by Wyman instead--to marginal success. He usually takes it with him as his main mission weapon, but something about the last time Daud had talked about the Knife -- the dangerous, almost desperate tone he had used in the slaughterhouse -- had struck a chord in Corvo.

He couldn't exactly say what that chord was, but he had gone out a few times without the Knife all the same. It refuses to be left behind for long, though; typically around midday it will start calling to him, like a wolfhound for its master. It's a feeling that worsens the more he ignores it, so try as he might, he can't go the whole night without it at least within eyesight.

He sighs, exasperated, as the Knife calls for him now, like an impatient child looking for attention. He unclips the Morleyan sword from his belt, replacing it with the light weight but heavy presence of the Knife, muttering out a “ _yeah yeah, whatever_ ” as it resonates under the fingers clasping it into place. He huffs down at it, clenching and unclenching his fist as the power of the Void surges through him, a familiar sensation after so long with the Knife in his possession.

How many years has it been now -- three? Four? Time had moved so strangely in that Tyvian prison. He shakes his head and exits his room, the now-silent Knife swinging from his hip.

Three doors and two flights of stairs later, and Corvo is downstairs and in the long dining room, casually fixing his hand wrapping as he goes. When he enters, only Wyman is there, frowning over some new textiles and their accompanying notes. Corvo sees them and stops, looking around.

“Flint's not here yet?”

Wyman looks up, smiling at Corvo. “No, not today. It's been a long day so he's showering and retiring early. Did you need him?”

“No, no it's--” Corvo tightens his wrapping absently. “It's fine. He just hardly ever leaves your side. It's almost strange to see you without him.”

Wyman laughs, and gestures to Corvo, walking around the table and heading towards a far desk. Curious, Corvo follows, hand wrap firmly back in place, and joins Wyman as they pull open a drawer. Inside, a silvergraph sits. Clearly, it was an experimental shot, and not indicative of how a fine silvergraph portrait should look. It has a strange focus, with a few scratches and blemishes, the edges blurring and the silver not properly spread on the glass plate.

Wyman looks at it fondly all the same, holding up an image featuring Daud standing next to them up toward the light.

“The photographer took this image as a test; my father hates how it isn't perfect and so never cared for it enough to display. It was meant to be an image of my father and I--but he wasn't ready yet, so the photographer had Flint stand in for him. I joked that Flint was more like a father to me than my own anyway, and Rinaldo had laughed so hard he nearly choked.”

Wyman grins at the memory, wistful as they hand the image to Corvo.

“It isn't the best shot, but I cherish it all the same. Perhaps after the old man passes, I can finally put it up somewhere.”

Corvo eyes the piece carefully, making sure not to cut his fingers on the glass. It's a simple image, really, with Daud sourly looking into the camera and Wyman smiling next to him, chin inclined gently. Nothing but complete ease shows on their face as they stand next to a man who used to be paid to kill nobles like the Rodagh family.

Corvo swallows, handing the image back to Wyman.

“You seem to care for Flint a lot.”

Wyman smiles their soft, genuine smile.

“Well, he's saved my life more times than I can count, and also saved my sister a few times as well. I trust him more than I can say, because he's given me more than enough reason to. Of course I care about him.” They place the image back in the drawer, closing it gently before turning to Corvo. “I'm sure the late Empress shared a similar feeling of utmost trust with you, Corvo. It's the only thing I could hope to compare it to, without the whole -- _well.”_

Wyman grins, their smirk devilish. Corvo feels his face heat.

“Yes, considering your interests currently lie with _Emily,_ one would think you don't fancy your bodyguard,” Corvo says, keeping his voice casual. It's Wyman's turn to shyly blush, looking away from Corvo and smoothing their vest.

They then laugh, chuckling to themselves more than anyone else.

“You know that she was once jealous of Flint? She may still be, but never says so. She's never met him, but I guess I speak almost too fondly of him sometimes. I saw her cheeks turn pink and her tone grow terse whenever I mentioned him. I had to reassure her that Flint is, without a doubt, most definitely _not_ my type.”

They fix their shirt, tucking it in as their blush recedes. They continue on, a thoughtful expression passing over their features.

“You know, I’m not really sure I'm _his_ type either, to be honest. He's only ever spoken of a boy he met in his youth during Fugue, and that was just one time. But the fact that Emily thought to be _jealous,_ well, that'll never not be amusing to--”

Something must have shown on Corvo's face because Wyman stops, eyeing him suspiciously. Their piercing green eyes look him up and down as he suddenly struggles to find neutrality in his face and stance. They're both quiet for a time, until Wyman finally breaks the silence, a hand on their hip.

“Corvo,” they start, looking away before eyeing the older man curiously again. “There's something I've been meaning to ask you, and I think now is as best a time as any.”

Corvo straightens, swallows, resting a hand on the hilt of the Knife to give his fingers something to do. “Of course, Wyman.”

“Flint doesn't lie to me,” they say, their voice taking on a dangerous edge. It is such a change in tone that Corvo is stunned, momentarily taken aback.

“There are things he avoids, and I allow that for his privacy, but he _doesn't_ lie to me. When you first came here, Flint simply said he hadn't recognized you at first, and I believe that. Mistaken identity is common. But--”

They pause, then straighten, meeting Corvo head on.

“But, Corvo, you are lying if you keep acting like _you_ didn't know who Flint was before meeting him in Wynnedown.”

Corvo blinks, his eyes flicking around the room before meeting Wyman’s gaze again. He desperately wishes he could pull the Void over his eyes, check the room completely, his skin prickling with the sensation of being watched.

“I'm not sure where you're getting that impression.”

Wyman's head tilts at him, looking at Corvo with an almost pitying gaze.

“For all your long hair and dark eyes, Lord Attano, you're not very good at keeping your emotions hidden. I _can't_ be the first person to tell you this.” Corvo pulls back, surprised, but Wyman continues, “You can talk about Flint as casually as you please, but as soon as he enters the room you become a brick wall, stiff and tense.”

Corvo tightens his grip on the Knife’s hilt painfully, taking a moment to look away.

“I may have seen him. _Once._ In Dunwall.”

Wyman digests this, looking away from Corvo for a moment, nodding. “Yes, Flint spent many years in Dunwall, from what he's told me.”

They pace slowly, their arms behind their back, and Corvo watches them, as impassive as a stone statue.

“When Flint came in my employ almost five years ago, he asked to contact some people from Dunwall, and I let him. It was for his bodyguard position, after all, and he had already proven himself competent. My father, however, was skeptical of the newcomers. So when Thomas, Misha, and Rinaldo respectively came under Flint's employ, I brought each aside and asked them the same questions I'm going to ask you.”

Corvo takes a breath, trying to remain neutral. He can feel the static of nearby magic on his spine and is now certain at least one ex-Whaler is listening in on the conversation.

“Fire away,” Corvo says evenly, and Wyman smiles that same small smile.

“How long have you known Flint? And is there anything I should be made aware of while he's under my employment?”

Corvo stiffens, brain reeling. What was it Wyman had said? _Flint_ doesn't lie, just withholds information -- which means it's very likely Wyman doesn't know of Daud's previous job and title. Which, frankly, Corvo isn't in a position to tell them, even if he wanted to.

Still…

“Before I answer, can you tell me how your employment of Flint has been so far up to this point?”

Wyman's face immediately brightens, green eyes shining.

“Yes, of course, he exceeds all expectations. Fast, efficient, well thought-out. He neutralizes threats and they are taken care of by the authorities. I've never felt safer than with Flint under my employ and I don't think there's a better bodyguard in all the Isles. He's proved his loyalty to me time and time again, and his men have been nothing if not exactly the same. They've been a delight to have under our roof, even if Flint is a bit rough around the edges.”

“And he's never shown any inclination to betray or harm?”

“Did you ever move to betray the Empress, or harm Emily?” Wyman asks, tone defensive.

“No, of course not, I would never--” Corvo visibly deflates, looking away. “Apologies, Wyman.”

“It's fine, you don't know Flint like I do. But I must stress that _that_ is how deep his loyalty and trust runs. I consider him family.”

_You don't know Flint like I do._

Corvo closes his eyes, inhales.

“I've known Flint personally for less than a calendar year. And if what you say is true, Wyman, then whatever mistrust I harbor for Flint… it isn't something that you need to worry about. It’s --”

His throat runs dry. He tries again.

“It's a personal matter, something I need to work through on my own.”

Upon hearing Corvo's answer, Wyman beams, their whole demeanor changing. Corvo blinks, feeling lightheaded at his own genuine response.

“Excellent! Thank you, for giving me the truth, Corvo. And since that's the case-- lighten up! Please, for my sake at least. You won't be with us forever, but I'd rather you enjoy your stay. Besides, I've been getting tired of seeing you stare dourly at Flint when you think nobody's looking.”

“I _haven't been--”_ but the knowing grin Wyman shoots him stops Corvo in his tracks.

“You're great at espionage but not so much at _hiding_ , Lord Attano.”

Corvo scowls, his flustered face pulling a loud laugh from Wyman.

“Now that I finally have that out of the way, _please,_ find time to talk to Flint. He's been researching the attacks in Morley since I was first ambushed. Your combined information might actually lead to somewhere for once.”

“I’ll look into it,” Corvo says and Wyman nods to him, face alight from such a successful conversation.

As Wyman exits and gets ready for dinner, Corvo can't shake the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, that this whole meeting between them was planned. Finally alone, he frowns and looks around, his Mark tingling lightly as he pulls the Void over his eyes. He isn't surprised to see the form of Misha in an opposing room, turning to look and then wave when he realizes Corvo has finally spotted him.

Corvo clenches his jaw, not amused by Misha's cheekiness as the man vanishes only to reappear in a chair at the table. Corvo pulls the Void from his eyes and scowls down at Misha, who smiles at him and interlaces his fingers.

“Did you have a good conversation?”

“You already know how it went,” Corvo states darkly. He leans over the table, caging Misha in with an arm. “What do you want.”

Misha shrugs, as cool as ever. “I came to let you know Flint wants to talk to you tonight in his room, whenever you've got the time.”

Corvo grinds his teeth, inhaling sharply through his nose as he counts to five.

“And if I refuse?”

Misha's dark eyebrows lift up to his hairline. “Do you really want Flint to come here personally and ask your audience? Besides, he'll probably just take your refusal and try again tomorrow or the next day. He's as patient as you are stubborn.”

Corvo considers sending Misha off with the message of _“Fuck you, fuck off,”_ but instead he finds himself taking a deep breath, shaking his head.

“Tell him I'll be up there after dinner. I'm as hungry as the Void itself.”

Misha grins and nods, blinking out of the room in a flurry of ash. Not for the first time, Corvo curses his own damn curiosity as he leaves and follows Wyman to dinner.

\------

It's much later in the evening when Corvo finally blinks down to the balcony outside of Daud's chambers. Dinner finished hours ago but Corvo had dawdled, turning over the facts in his head, unsure of why it was so hard to face Daud when Daud was the one to initiate contact. He imagined scenarios, ran through conversations, trying to play out as many possibilities as he could think of.

No matter what, all of them ended with him angry and initiating a fight; some of the more extreme endings led to more bloodshed, a dead Daud, and an elaborate escape from the Rodagh estate on Corvo's end.

He had contemplated being a no-show as well. But Corvo is a man of his word; in the end, his shoes land on the hard marble, startling Thomas. He turns, watching Corvo steadily as he arrives.

“Oh so you _did_ decide to show up,” he says derisively. “I was honestly thinking you weren't capable of getting over yourself.”

Corvo thinks, not for the first time, how disconcerting it is that he now knows the faces behind the whaler masks.

“Leave him be, Thomas,” Daud says from inside, his voice muffled by distance. “I invited him, didn't I?”

Corvo manages to hold his tongue as he lifts an eyebrow towards Thomas, as if daring him to continue. Thomas, though, faithfully does what he's told, silently glowering at Corvo as he enters Daud's quarters.

Corvo has to admit, Daud has a nice place here with the Rodagh family. Granted, it's not an overly fancy room -- the frills were most likely trimmed and removed -- but it has an almost minimalist aesthetic. Like Corvo, Daud has a penchant for collecting documents and trinkets when out, but unlike Corvo, Daud kept what he found as organized as possible.

Bookshelves line the walls; a few have ledges and desks attached that all hold a souvenir of some kind on display. To Corvo’s left, a large board hangs on the wall, covered in documents, posters, and handwritten notes, as well a stack of books on either side. In the midst of the well-kept room it is a small space of organized chaos. Corvo also notes the large bed and dresser on the back wall, a door leading to a bathroom and separate lounge area, and the table on the right wall in front of the bookshelf, where Daud currently has himself situated.

“Look at you,” Corvo says coolly, hands in his pockets as he walks over. “A roof? Four walls? Functioning plumbing? You've really moved up in the world, Daud.”

“Only Emily and Wyman find your sarcastic attempts at humor amusing, Attano,” Daud mumbles out. He's not looking at his newcomer; instead Daud is focused on the setup splayed out before him. It’s a checkered board, black and white, the pieces spread out as if in mid-game. Corvo frowns down at it as he approaches, throwing a questioning glance at Daud.

“Should I come back when you aren't busy, or…?” Corvo asks, gesturing at the board. Daud's eyes flick up to him, a hand on his chin while he thinks his next move out.

“Sorry. You took so long wasting my time waiting that I decided to play without you.” Corvo tenses, immediately feeling defensive; Daud notices and rolls his eyes, waving Corvo off.

“Outsider’s balls, Corvo. Relax. I didn't call you here to fight with you.”

“Not even a sparring match, then?” Corvo asks, feigning disappointment. Daud just glares at him, unamused.

“I called you here for me to talk and for you to listen. I almost started thinking you wouldn't show up at all, but I knew your curiosity would win out in the end.”

“Because you know me so well, don't you.”

On his hip, the Knife chitters-- angrily, expectantly-- and they both glance down at it. Daud's gaze lingers on it, eyes hard, before flicking back up to Corvo. They both exchange a dark look, the storm that's been looming over them for the last week brewing up once again.

“I think the issue, Corvo, is that you don't know _me_ as well as you think you do.”

He gestures for Corvo to sit as his eyes go back down to the board. Corvo settles in the chair, falling silent, looking at the black and white pieces, standing faithful in their respective spaces. He isn't really sure where Daud is going with this, and he watches the other man awkwardly.

Daud tilts his head, eyeing Corvo, impassive.

“I'm assuming you're familiar with chess?”

Corvo rests his hands in his lap as he nods. “The Duke taught me how to play, many years ago. Why, do you play?”

“More like poke and prod, really.” Daud gestures to the pieces. Corvo raises an eyebrow, looking over the board carefully as Daud takes the white queen out with a black pawn.

It's clear that Daud has been playing a solo game with himself until Corvo showed; he is deep in mid game, with most pieces scattered and out of their starting positions. Daud's side is black; the side Corvo is sitting at is white. At the moment, black has a bit of an advantage; white is missing their queen, which lays toppled and off to the side. The king is vulnerable, but is open to castling with the rooks on either side. A knight is out on the board, and five pawns as well. One pawn, Corvo notes, is one open move away from being promoted to queen.

Black is missing more pawns, but has bigger, more powerful players left on the board. The queen, for example, is still in play, and in a powerful (but vulnerable) mid-board position. Four pawns are still scattered about, as is a bishop and a knight, along with the king.

Multiple moves are available on both ends, leading to different outcomes.

Corvo glances at Daud expectantly.

“You know, I used to think myself in the same position as the Queen,” Daud says absently as he reaches forward, moving the black queen to place the white king in check. “I could go and do anything I wanted, I had all the power of this world and the next. Invincible. _Untouchable.”_

Daud then castles the white king, and the black queen is forced to move to avoid the new placement of the rook.

“But I was a fool. I didn't think I had blind spots, so I didn't cover for them. Should've known better.”

The black queen is then picked off by a pawn, lying in wait. This leaves the black King wide open and vulnerable. Corvo shifts in his chair, watching Daud as he continues:

“The problem with queens and pawns in chess is that there's not much stopping a queen from being laid low by a pawn and --  if played right --”

He moves a black knight to capture the pawn, taking the king out of check. The white pawn then makes its move, and is swiftly promoted.

“--there’s nothing to stop a pawn from becoming the next queen.”

Daud places the toppled white queen back on the table, where its presence alone brings the black king into check. The black king is forced to move, leaving the black pawn who killed the white queen open for capture. From where it moved earlier, the black pawn is two paces from promotion. Daud hovers over the board, carefully picking his next move.

Corvo waits impatiently; to him, the next move is obvious. It's a strategic advantage to move the white queen to take out the black pawn that is threatening to promote itself. That would take the white queen out of range of the still-threatening black bishop, and give it and the white rook a chance to set up checkmate.

Daud, however, doesn't move, his eyes roaming the pieces. Corvo frowns, fidgets, and finally reaches forward, placing his hand on the white queen.

He then pauses, hovering, eyes going wide as he studies the board.

Daud looks up, watching him, silent and unmoving.

Corvo moves the white queen adjacent to the black bishop.

“Check.”

Daud eyes Corvo, the shadow of a smile playing at his lips, before moving the black king out of check. Corvo takes the bishop;  Daud moves the black pawn forward. Corvo moves his white pawn forward.

“Check.”

The black king is forced to move out of check, the pawn still one square away from promotion. Corvo eyes the pawn for just a moment before swinging his queen into position, preparing for the final strike. Daud makes the only other move he can: he promotes his black pawn.

The white king goes into check, but it doesn't matter. Corvo moves his rook into position. He looks over at Daud before pushing the black king over.

“Checkmate.”

Daud sits back in his chair and laughs, shaking his head. It's a strange thing; not particularly derisive, almost too genuine. Corvo wants so badly to hate the sound, to stop the betraying grin spreading across his face.

“You could have finished that three moves earlier,” Daud tells him.

“Yeah well, I was never very good at chess,” Corvo says, dismissive of his own win.

“And I was always too good at the short game to have foresight for the long,” Daud replies, a curious hint of sadness lingering in his voice. He reaches across the board, carefully gathering the pieces and putting them in their proper places. Corvo watches, saying nothing, feeling not so much drained as he does sobered by the game.

“Was that supposed to be some weird form of a test,” he asks, mulling the game and what Daud said over in his head.

“What do you think, Attano?”

For the first time in regards to Daud, Corvo doesn't know _what_ to think. It is easy to just be _mad,_ to sit there and hate Daud and all that Daud reminded him of. The distrust that fueled his anger thus far, however, seems to have fled entirely. Corvo looks down, watching Daud set the pieces on the board back to neutral. He eyes the white queen as Daud put her back onto her proper square; his stomach turns when he sees the passing likeness of Jessamine staring blankly back up at him.

He takes a breath to steady himself, and folds his hands carefully in his lap.

“I think I recall being summoned here to talk.”

“Well, you haven't thrown a punch or swung that Knife at me yet. I consider that progress.”

Corvo barks out a quick laugh as Daud peers over the board at him. Corvo eyes his white pieces carefully, set perfectly in front of him now.

A clean slate, a new game to play.

Corvo moves a white pawn forward two spaces.

Daud smiles. “Alright,” he says. He moves a black pawn forward a step. “You know roughly why I'm here, Attano. And I know you're here to uncover what the enemies of the crown are up to, as well as spy on Emily's love interest in your downtime.”

Corvo glares darkly over the board at Daud, but it's half-hearted at best. His inclines his head as he moves his right knight out into play.

“I wasn't _spying_ on Wyman. I was simply…”

Daud moves another pawn while Corvo fights to find the right words.

“You were simply _stalking_ Wyman, then.” Daud finishes for him. Corvo pushes another pawn forward.

“I was not stalking. I wasn't spying, either. I had found Wyman and was making sure they were okay.”

Daud huffs out a laugh and moves his bishop. “Whatever makes you sleep better at night, Corvo, but you were following Wyman for at least four days before I confronted you.”

Corvo coughs, staring at Daud incredulously. “Your men were able to track me that efficiently?” he asks, pushing his pawn forward. Daud smoothly swings his own knight out, capturing Corvo's pawn. He curses, and Daud continues talking, amused.

“As much as you like to refute it, Corvo, I _am_ damned good at my job. I'm sure there's a joke you want to throw at me like _'it takes an assassin to know an assassin,’_ and you'd be right.”

Corvo frowns, a hint of annoyance rising as he moves his knight to take Daud's bishop.

“Wyman speaks highly of you,” Corvo finds himself saying. Daud pauses, staring down at the board, innocently pushing a pawn forward.

“I care about Wyman a great deal. It's nice to be reminded that the feeling is mutual.”

_“Why?”_

“Why, what?”

“Why do you care so much about Wyman?”

Daud looks at Corvo then, and Corvo can feel the heat of anger creeping up in him. He doesn't mean for it to, but the question sounds like it's coming from an impetuous child more than the Royal Spymaster.

It takes Daud a while to answer, looking away and sitting back, lost in thought. More than once, Corvo sees him look to Thomas before his eyes flick back around the room and onto Corvo once more.

“Wyman isn't your average noble. You know what I mean: selfish, rude, immature children posing as adults and screaming if things don't go their way. No; Wyman was mature beyond their years even when I met them. They actually care about their people and country. They gave me a _reason_ to care about those trying to harm them, and by extension harm Emily and the crown.”

Corvo moves his rook forward. He closes his eyes and takes a breath. When he opens them again, he sees Daud has moved his queen into play.

“What _have_ you found since you started investigating? Finding information covertly in this city is like pulling teeth. They're all clamped up like a river krust; been like that since I got here.” He runs a hand through his hair, mussing the long strands.

“I'm guessing you didn't find much this last week then,” Daud says coolly, watching Corvo as he moves a pawn forward. Daud then pushes his queen ahead, snatching up Corvo's pawn.

“No, and any leads I found have all run dry.”

“You ever think it's because they are on edge, seeing as one of their major players hasn't returned from Dunwall yet?” Daud looks up, his expression dark. “Grisby. Does that name ring a bell?”

“Yes, I found an audiograph in Dunwall addressed to them and then swiftly made to find Grisby myself. They're in Coldridge as we speak--”

Daud curses, and Corvo jumps, startled.

“Damnit--did anything _else,_ happen, Corvo? Did you kill them, too?”

_“Them too?_ No, of course I didn't, I literally just said--”

“Don't think I didn't hear about the Draper's Ward incident.”

Corvo drops his knight onto its square, his throat running dry. “Emily did write to Wyman about that…” he says, far off, remembering reading those words before she sent them out. So of course Daud would have known, because Wyman would have told him. “But she was scant on the details.”

“I know three suspects were killed in that incident, Corvo,” Daud says, his voice steely. He moves his queen to take a pawn. “And a lot more than just that, if the reports are correct. _Check_.”

Corvo looks down, just now realizing he's left a path wide open to his king. He moves his bishop, blocking the black queen’s path.

“The Hatters Gang--” Corvo starts “--they were tracked as being connected to Emily's assassination attempt. When I looked into it, however, I didn't find anything connected to Morley.”

“What you thought was just the Hatters Gang is actually a front for a different group.

It has been for years, seeing as I took out the majority of the Hatters while you were _busy.”_

_Busy._ As in, while Corvo was carving a bloody path through Dunwall, getting back at everyone who had taken everything from him.

“Ever since then, the group has doubled down on their efforts, both here and in Dunwall. It's caused me and my men all sorts of shit, especially for Wyman. _Check."_

Corvo looks down; in his haste to try and take Daud's queen, Daud had moved his rook and captured Corvo's bishop. Corvo curses, and moves his queen to take the rook.

“I haven't heard a word about the Hatters since I went after them,” Corvo states, grimacing as he tries to remember details he may have somehow overlooked or forgotten. “That hit was months ago, and the trail ran cold after that. It wasn't until I found papers and an audiograph addressed to Grisby that I had anything. But I don't see how that could affect you here.”

“Corvo,” Daud says, his voice deadly. Corvo looks at him, feeling his defenses rising. “There was an eyewitness. They knew it was you. Someone saw you, and they ran to Morley because they were _terrified_.”

He swallows, his blood running cold. Against his best efforts, he can't slow the beating in his heart or the ringing in his ears.

“But that's not possible--”

Daud angrily knocks one of Corvo's pawns out of play with his knight.

“Thomas found her audiograph. She talked like she had seen a monster in a mask who moved like a ghost. Slaughtering the Hatters, or anyone who crossed his path. She only lived because she hid and ran.”

Corvo breathes as evenly as he can. He moves his other knight into play.

“Corvo.”

_“It wasn't like that,_ Daud. I didn't kill that many-- They were threatening another attack on Emily by the end of the year.”

“You killed three key targets, Corvo. And because someone saw you, they now suspect you, and therefore suspect the crown. You made _martyrs_ out of them.”

“Nobody saw me,” Corvo growls.

“Well _somebody did,_ and we have to deal with that fallout now.”

“Does it matter if Emily is safe?”

“It does if they have a reason to build distrust against the crown! Corvo, they came after Wyman when news of Draper's Ward arrived in Wynnedown. To try and send a _message,_ Corvo. If Wyman ended up dead, Emily would have lost a huge asset here in Morley; the Rodagh family controls nearly all trade between Wynnedown and Dunwall. They would have seen it as an equal blow, an eye for an eye.”

Daud moves his queen to the right side of the board, his hand still steady, despite the emotion behind his words.

“Since they failed at that assassination attempt, they've gone underground, burrowing away into the cliffside like moles. Even I can't dig them out. It's only a matter of time until they emerge and try something desperate in broad daylight.”

“And who is _they,_ Daud? Does this mysterious group even have a name? Or are they so weakened that they can't even --”

_“Regenters,_ Corvo. Supporters of Burrows. They're fanatics, but gaining traction. One of their favorite ways of garnering supports is by making you look bad.”

_“Me?”_ Corvo says, the words buzzing in his ear like a nest of angry bloodflies. He moves his rook, hardly paying attention to the game at this point. “But Emily's approval ratings have never been higher. Nobody knows I'm even Spymaster, or--”

“Nobody except the person who saw you  murdering dozens of people in the name of the crown. Mask or not, Dunwall already suspects you as the vigilante from the plague. Besides, it's not like they need to try hard to frame you; not after what you did to Burrows in his own chambers--”

“I also exposed him as the reason the plague happened in the first place! He was trying to use the rats to kill half the city's impoverished, blame it on illness--”

“Yeah well, you did that well enough for him during the rat plague all on your own, didn't you?” Daud sneers, words dripping with venom. Corvo glares at him, the ringing of his ears growing in pitch and strength, consuming him. “How many of Jessamine’s people did _you_ end up killing, justifying it as _her will_ that drove you to--”

Daud drops his queen into place just as Corvo pulls the singing blade from his hip. The twin tips rest under Daud's chin and the man inclines his head carefully, slowly withdrawing his arm from across the board.

_“Checkmate.”_

Corvo can feel his face, his whole body burning with anger, with a justified rage. In his head, the storm hits the shore full force, wind howling, water breaking. He directs all that force at Daud, watching as the man winces under the Knife’s pressure, drowning in the pounding waves.

“Corvo--”

_“DON'T.”_

His voice feels too heavy, too dangerous, even to his ears, but Daud had a crossed a line. To even think he knew _better_ than Corvo-- to even _dare_ to insinuate that--

Corvo's mind flicks through all the ways he could possibly end Daud's life. The Void surges through him, begging to be used.

“Do not talk about her like that,” he says, voice shaking, like a downpour falling onto the earth. “Don't talk like you knew her, like you cared one lick about what she _loved_ or _wanted,_ before--”

Something dangerous must have shown on Corvo's face then, because Daud drops all pretense of calm or controlled anger. Instead his eyes grow wide, his voice taking on a cautionary edge.

“Corvo,” he growls, carefully. “Corvo, drop the damn Knife.”

Corvo grimaces, his grip tightening. As if he needed to do that, needed to disarm himself just because Daud said to--

“Corvo,” he repeats, more forcefully this time. “Corvo drop the Void-damned Knife or so help me I'll have to--”

Corvo doesn't wait to hear what Daud will have to do; the Knife rings true in his ears and he agrees, lunging forward with the blade. But Daud is already gone; the twin blades stab at the open air where Daud had been not moments before. Daud reappears in front of him, pushing him back from the board, storm grey eyes far too close. Before Corvo can even summon the Void to do his bidding, Thomas is also there, blinking over and pulling Corvo's left hand behind his back painfully, muttering apologies as he does so.

Corvo growls and lifts his right arm, ready to strike -- Daud grabs his wrist tight, applying pressure and pulling his hand back. Corvo yells at the sudden pain lancing through his wrist, his hand opening reflexively against the sharp discomfort.

The Knife falls from his hand and suddenly, the storm is gone. Corvo gasps, the wind no longer roaring in his ears, the crashing sound of the weapon's ancient music no longer bearing down on him. He draws breath, opens his mouth, tries to meet Daud's face. Daud looks down at him, his face stony and cold, eyes flashing like lightning.

“Pawns to Queens to Pawns again,” he growls out, and the dread creeps cold into Corvo's stomach.

“Daud--”

“Stop. Justifying. And tell me everything you know about that Knife. _Right the fuck now.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was something special to write. The next one shouldn't be NEAR as long.
> 
> I also apologize on the off-chance that anyone reading this an avid chess player. I have no idea if the moves they've made are possible, or if you can even win with them. The symbolism of the first game trumped accuracy and the second game was more for fun anyway, to give the boys something to do. Let's just call it house rules and leave it at that.


	12. On Knife's Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ancient, unpredictable... but at least it's got a great personality.

Shame isn't an emotion that Corvo wears well, or often.

He hasn't felt anything close to it since perhaps his childhood, when his mother had chastised him roughly for knowingly throwing blood amber into his sister's hair. The incriminating sticky substance had coated his fingers and face, an angry welt or two blossoming from where the bloodflies had stung him in retaliation for stealing from their nest. His sister had hot tears on her face, was yelling angry curses at him about how her day out had been ruined, but it had been his mother's disappointed eyes and quietly stern voice that had filled him with flushed embarrassment. 

“I expect better from you, Corvo. There's no reason for you to be so jealous of Beatrici,” she had said, sadness more than anger filling her words. He had looked down at his feet, the leather of his hand-me-down boots scuffed and dusty and sticking to the floorboards of their tiny apartment. 

“I'm not jealous, I'm just…”

“Don't tell me you're mad, boy, because if you are you'll do worse if you grow up and are still mad for no reason.”

“What if you're mad for a reason?”

“That's called justice, Corvo. But wishing bad things on your sister because she can go out but you can't isn't justice, it's jealousy.”

Young Corvo had worried his bottom lip, had looked away, hissing as his mother applied ointments to the stings on his face. A few tears had slipped from his eyes and he brushed them hastily away.

“Are you mad at me, mama?” 

She sighed, pausing, before shaking him lightly on the arm.

“Hey. Hey, look at me, Corvo,” she had said, gentle words hard with command. He looked at her. “I'm not mad, because people do stupid things when they're mad. It only ever makes things worse to use madness to fight madness, you got it? I'm just disappointed in you. You know better.”

Corvo nodded, the shame a shade of bright red on his face. 

“You don't do it again, or I'll sign you up to work those mines instead of working on your letters and numbers. You hear me?”

“Yes mama, I hear you.”

“Now apologize to your sister, and help her get that damned sticky mess out of her hair.”

Now, an adult Corvo looks over at Daud, where he's pacing the room, muttering angrily under his breath. Corvo sits at the table still, his chin resting on his hands, elbows propped on his knees. The game board and pieces lay scattered on the floor, spilled by the scuffle earlier and promptly forgotten about. From the balcony door, Thomas watches Corvo warily, defensive but still ready to jump to Daud's aid if needed. 

The Knife rests at Daud's desk, silent, innocent, looking nothing more than a regular weapon of irregular make. Daud eyeballs it carefully before moving away again, talking to himself.

Corvo had just finished telling Daud about how the Knife had come into his possession, how he had been sent to Tyvia under Emily's orders, had met Zhukov, had found the Knife, and subsequently escaped. Daud had said little during the recounting, only asking for clarification on certain aspects of what had happened. 

Corvo had amended parts of the story; Daud surely didn't need to know, for example, of the monster of stone that had attacked him, or the man he had possessed and framed for the murders Corvo technically committed. He had left out the finer details of smuggling himself back to Gristol and how it had taken 6 months of travel just to get back to the capital city -- such trivialities were only mentioned in passing.

Ever since Corvo had finished his tale, though, Daud had fallen even more silent, sequestering himself to his own thoughts and sharing them with neither of the two men standing in the room with him. 

Corvo waits and stews in his own self-consciousness. His foot fidgets and he doesn't move to still it. His eyes flick to Daud, then to Thomas, before flicking to the floor again.

“I'm sorry,” he croaks out, the words sounding as shattered as his pride. Daud looks at him and Thomas jumps, surprised. Somewhere in his chest, Corvo's heart clenches painfully.

“What?” Daud asks. It's not an angry question, nor is it a dismissive one.

“I'm sorry,” Corvo repeats. “For... _ this. _ For attacking you. For everything. It was --  _ I've  _ been acting foolish, and it's only because you… Well, you know what you did.” 

He waves a hand and looks away, as if Jessamine's death is a trivial topic. They both know it isn't in the slightest -- there's still a giant chasm between them because of what happened that day -- but for once, Corvo doesn't want to deal with it. He decided long ago that Daud wasn't worth killing over her death, and it's that initial decision that keeps him from killing Daud, day after day. 

So if Daud is here to stay because not even Corvo could manage the finishing blow, he might as well stop acting like a child about it and make peace. Or, at least, start to. For Wyman's -- and perhaps, even Emily and the whole damn Empire’s -- sake.

Daud, however, gives him a strange look. 

“I don't blame you for what happened,” he says evenly, his brow pulled tight together, his gaze questioning. 

Corvo is equally confused.

“What? I'm-- you told me to stop justifying, and I am.  _ I'm sorry. _ I'm taking responsibility for my actions.” The annoyance bubbles up, unbidden. “If you don't accept my apology that's one thing, but at least act like you acknowledge that I'm  _ trying _ over here.”

“I said that well before you gave me more details on your fancy weapon over there,” Daud states evenly, hooking a finger over his shoulder at the Knife laying on his desk. “The problem is that thing has clearly enthralled you, which means you weren't in your right mind when the attacks happened.”

Corvo blinks. “No-- that's not--” He stands up himself, shaking his head in frustration. “You listened to what I said, with Zhukov and the Knife?  _ He  _ was clearly enthralled, he was practically possessed. That's different from what I experience.”

“Corvo, I've read a lot about that damn Knife, more than you know, and probably all that actually exists on it. The one thing it always mentions, without fault, is an eventual madness-- an  _ enthralling _ of the Knife upon the bearer.”

“I’m going to take a wild guess and say those people weren't Marked, or they hadn't touched the Void already. They weren't--”

“What,” Daud snarls, and Corvo pauses.  _ “Special? Chosen? Like us? _ Doesn't matter; we're all mortal, and this thing makes mortals do its bidding.”

Corvo huffs. He paces now, trying to explain. “You probably think this is just more justifying, but Daud, I promise, I'm not lying. The Knife and I-- It's a relationship. It tends to tell me what it wants and I just tend to  _ … agree… _ with what it wants.” 

“So,” Daud says evenly, a sneer crossing his face. “You're saying that if I chose to get rid of this Knife,” he slowly reaches for the weapon on his left, where it sits on the desk. Corvo catches the movement and his eyes go wide, the panic rising fast in his chest. 

“Daud,” he says quickly, the words jumbling out. “Daud wait, don't--” 

“Would you agree to try and stop me? Would the Knife tell you to halt my throw?”

“No, it's not like--  _ DAUD--”  _

But Daud has already grabbed the Knife, the instrument ringing under his gloved fingers. For a hot, terrified moment, Corvo expects Daud's body to turn to stone, to splinter and crack and become Void incarnate, expects to hear Daud cry in pain and fright, unsure of what was happening and unable to stop it. 

Corvo holds his breath. Nothing happens.

Instead he finds himself watching Daud in slow motion as he blinks to the balcony and raises his arm to throw the dagger as far as he can over Wynnedown.

Daud's arm stops mid-throw, his fingers still tightly wrapped around the hilt. In his hand the Knife sings, reverberating through the night air, rippling around them. 

Sweat beads on Daud's face as he struggles against the Knife’s will. He clenches his left fist, his Mark burning, and tries to throw it again. Once more, he's stopped, the Knife angrily buzzing in his grasp. Corvo swallows and Thomas steps forward, worried.

“Daud? What's wrong?”

Daud tries again before cursing loudly, the Knife’s resonance echoing his irritation. He trudges back inside, past Corvo and Thomas, and throws the Knife heavily onto the bed. As soon as it hits the sheets, it quiets again, looking once more as if it is not a strange ancient artifact of unfathomable power.

“Of course, I should have known better, it's not a Knife, it's the  _ damned Void itself-- _ foolish to think I could just…” Daud angrily balls his hands into fists, shaking his head in frustration. 

“Sir,” Thomas asks, taking a careful step forward. “Sir, perhaps if I tried to--” 

“DON'T YOU DARE TOUCH THAT CURSED THING.”

Daud's anger ripples through Corvo and it creeps up his spine; there's a hellfire behind his words and stance that Corvo has never truly witnessed before. It's as if Daud's entire aura darkens, and the wrath behind it is something Thomas clearly doesn't want to invoke. The man pauses, going stock still, looking down. 

“Get out of here, Thomas. You're dismissed.”

“Yes, sir.” 

Like that, Thomas is gone, a whisper of the Void following him as he transverses from the room. Corvo says nothing for a time; he stands there, waiting for the fire to burn down before approaching again.

“Do you get what I mean now?” He asks Daud, waiting for an answer. 

It takes a moment before Daud replies, his fists clenching and unclenching, as he continues to stare down the unmoving Knife.

“That thing is something I never wanted to see in my lifetime, and now that it's here we can't even be rid of it.  _ Spirits, _ I don't need something this fucking evil around.”

Corvo shifts, puts his hands in his pockets. “I wouldn't call it evil, not really. From what I have come to understand it's a sort of amplifier. It's the Void itself so it does what the Void wants. It just tends to…  _ strengthen _ already powerful emotions.”

“Like when you're feeling particularly murderous, for example.” 

“Well, yes. Which means that…” he searches for the words, a hand waving, grasping for the right phrasing. “When I wanted to kill you, the Knife simply agreed in that instance that it was a good idea. It didn't make me want to kill you. It didn't control me. I wanted to, and it gave me the ability and justification to do so.”

Corvo waits a beat for that to sink in. Daud doesn't respond. He just keeps staring Corvo down, his face unreadable. Corvo huffs again, doing his best to hold Daud's gaze.

“So. Again. I'm sorry. For everything.”

Daud laughs. 

It's a harsh sound, a far cry from the genuine laughter he had produced during the chess game earlier. This laugh lacks all warmth, all mirth, and instead is just a hollow, defeated sound. It's so unsettling that Corvo clams up, his self-consciousness building as a frown crosses his features. 

“Look, I'm not justifying myself, I'm not saying that enthrallment doesn't happen. I saw what happened to Zhukov in that glacier. I'm just-- I'm  _ sure _ that my actions are still my own,Daud.”

“Oh yes,” Daud says, his voice biting, like gravel grating against metal. “Yes, your actions are your own. Just, you know, with an irrefutable murderous  _ essence  _ choosing when it decides to influence you.” 

“It's not inherently murderous, Daud, it's just--”

“Don't tell me what it is or isn't, Corvo, that's not the point! The  _ point, _ is that  _ you, _ a human touched by the Outsider, now carries a weapon that just so happens to amplify your emotions and thoughts whenever suits it best! Like getting rid of pesky problems in its way without remorse or repercussions!”

The anger bursts out of Daud and he shakes as he tries to maintain control and composure. Corvo watches him carefully, recoiling from the wrath that Thomas no doubt had been ordered away from.

“And the worst part is we are stuck with this damned thing! You know why? Because  _ it doesn't want to leave!” _

Daud laughs again, a broken, desperate sound bordering on delirium. He runs a hand through his hair, turning from Corvo, muttering angry words under his breath. Corvo lets him go, his mind unsure of what to say, or if it is even worth saying. 

Between them, the silence drags. Daud breathes, hands on his hips, and Corvo watches him, waiting as the other man finds his center. 

“This Knife. Have you tried to be rid of it, before?”

Corvo's mouth runs dry so he licks his lips, looking away.

“A few times, yes. It's stronger than the Mark. It can stop a power mid-thought if it feels the need to self-preserve. I can go out without it, but could never leave it…  _ behind.” _

“Shit.” 

“Yeah,” Corvo agrees.

Between them, the Knife softly rings out a note. They both jerk to look at it, and Daud grimaces at how involuntary the action is.

“There's nothing else for it then,” Daud says, lost in thought. “We’ll have to wait to find out what it wants, and then deal with it.”

Corvo looks at him curiously, folding his arms. “How can you know that, just by looking at it? Because I've had that thing for four years and it's never told me to go somewhere or do something specific.”

“No, it's not that simple,” Daud says, shaking his head. He walks over to a bookshelf, looking for a specific volume. “It's made of Void, which means if it wants something, it can wait a long time for it because it doesn't exist on the same timescale as us mortals.” 

He finds the book, pulling it off the shelf. He walks over to Corvo and puts it on the table, flipping through it. Eventually he finds a page covered in symbols and with drawings of the Void, including a crude rendition of the Knife.

“If the records are correct, this Knife has been seen and used only sparingly for thousands of years. If it wanted to leave Tyvia, then that was a recent decision it made, and it entered someone's dreams -- in this case, Zhukov's -- to accomplish that goal. It may not yet have a next destination in mind.”

“So how do we find out what that is?” Corvo asks, peering around Daud's shoulder at the book. “How do we know when the Knife decides to… take the next step?”

“We don't,” Daud says simply, flipping through the book. “It will let us know, so until then we are stuck with it. What we  _ can _ do, though, is gather as much research on the Knife as we can while we have it.” 

Daud earmarks the page and sets the book aside for later, already looking at the other volumes he's collected in his room. “Working under Wyman means I have access to a plethora of old records that have been kept over time. There's a royal archive I have access to-- and even if I didn't, we can both exploit an unguarded path that leads inside. We can start there, once we really need to double down on what the Knife wants.”

Corvo nods, listening, picking up the book that Daud had set aside. The title reads _ Whispers of the Void _ \-- Corvo frowns, thinking the name familiar. 

“Is this why you know so much about the Knife? Books like this one?”

“Essentially. I also used to have … well, let's call it an unhealthy  _ obsession _ with the Void and the Outsider for a while. I found that book back in the Academy, back when the black-eyed bastard thought me worth Its time. I wanted to make myself even  _ more  _ worth Its time. I discovered later that it was a waste of effort; well, maybe now it won't be.”

Corvo nods again, tucking the book away for later reading. He eyes Daud curiously.

“You're surprisingly forthcoming for someone I always thought so secretive.”

“Why,” he says smoothly, still searching the books. “Because I hid my name, once, from the winner of the 1814 Blade Verbena?” 

Corvo stiffens, glowering at Daud. The other man catches his expression and barks out a laugh. 

“I told you; you don't know me as well as you think you do.”

“I knew an assassin for hire who killed for coin and felt no remorse. Now I know a bodyguard who protects a noble and does it in the name of the Empire.” 

“The Empress was different.”

“Yeah, she  _ was.” _

The hard, defensive emotion doesn't escape Daud and he eyes Corvo carefully. Corvo turns and distances himself again, the gap between them widening with the movement. Behind him, Corvo hears Daud sigh and it only makes the vice around his heart tighten even further. He instead turns his attention to the infoboard, with all its postings and notes. He spots the crest of the Lord Regent and a different feeling bubbles up; a directed anger, full of purpose. 

_ Justice, _ he tells himself. Fight madness with justice. He is here to investigate a threat to Emily: for Daud, it's a threat to Wyman, and by extension, Emily. They are both after the same thing, the same justified goal. If he can cross this chasm, maybe they can actually work together.  _ Maybe. _

He closes his eyes and -- for just a moment --  sees again the flash of the blade in Daud's hand, the spray of blood down Jessamine's front, her body growing cold in his arms.

_ You can't save her you can't save her you can't save-- _

_ “ _ Corvo.”

His eyes snap open and he breathes, back in the present. His limbs feel cold and he shakes them out, the air shuddering in his lungs. Far away, he can hear a faint ringing in his ears. 

When Corvo turns to face Daud, he sees the man watching him, another book open in his hands. The expression is soft, but not pitying; if anything, there's a mutual understanding there, as if he knows what Corvo is thinking, the emotions running through him.

“The Regenters in Morley,” Corvo starts, fighting to keep his voice even. The shadow of concern flicks across Daud's eyes before being buried behind hard stone. “If we can't do anything about the Knife right now, we need to focus on them, eliminate that threat as quickly as possible.”

Daud nods, eyes flicking to the board before going back to Corvo. 

“I agree. But I want more time to talk about that, so we can compare notes. Besides, there's plenty to discuss with you about how you've acted so far in this, and how it might affect how the group retaliates.” 

When Corvo frowns defensively, Daud holds up a hand, stopping him. 

“No, don't defend yourself. You killed key witnesses and strong allies to the Regenter cause, individuals who could have provided a lot of information if they were still  _ alive. _ Oh, and so you know, I  _ don't _ kill my targets anymore if I can help it, so we're going to have to talk about that when it comes to future mission strategy.”

Corvo gapes at him, before snarling and crossing his arms, looking away. “Fine, that's fair. Later, then. I won't keep up this… lone wolfhound charade anymore. If we work together, we might just stop these guys.” 

“Yes, we just might, but only if we have a plan.” Daud sets another book aside before moving to his desk, gathering documents and talking mostly to himself. “I'll talk to Wyman tomorrow and see if we can't set up some new patrols, get access to the archives…”

As Daud talks, Corvo turns to look at him. He realizes belatedly that for the first time, he's not looking at Daud as  _ “Daud, Assassin and Jessamine's Killer” _ but instead as a man who is, through mutual need and circumstance, genuinely trying to help him. 

Not to use him under false pretenses like the Loyalists had when they made him their personal assassin. Not to pity or praise him like everyone in Dunwall Tower. Not to belittle him like nearly every noble he's ever had the displeasure of talking in court with. 

No; instead Daud is seeing a problem Corvo is involved in, reaching out, and offering assistance. Corvo realizes that Daud has been doing this since the moment they met in Wynnedown-- it's just that only now has Corvo gotten his head out of his ass long enough to notice and accept it.

It isn't perfect. Spirits, far from it. But it is, most definitely, a  _ start. _

“Hey, Attano, are you even listening?”

It takes far too many seconds for Corvo to realize that Daud is focused on him, his brow creased, his eyes suspicious. Corvo blushes with embarrassment as Daud looks him up and down, grimacing.

“Sorry, what?” 

“I said, you look like death warmed over. When was the last time you even slept decently?”

“I don't sleep,” Corvo responds back, deadpan. Daud just grunts, still finding Corvo's self-deprecating humor unamusing. He turns from Corvo and walks over to the bed, unceremoniously picking the Knife up and moving it to the desk. When Corvo doesn't follow him, Daud just motions to the bed, a scarred eyebrow raised at him.

“Here. Have the bed. You need to sleep before we can chat properly about anything, and I highly doubt that Knife will let you leave without it anyway. I'll just sleep on the couch --” he jerks a finger over his shoulder towards the door on his right -- “It's not like I haven't slept on it before, anyway.” 

Corvo stares at him, unblinking, before turning to look at the large, comfortable bed. Daud waits for a reaction, but when none comes, he just makes a throaty noise and starts gathering his things to sleep in the lounge room.

“Daud.”

He turns, looks at Corvo grumpily.

“Thank you.” 

Daud’s expression shifts minutely before going steely again. He grimaces, teeth bared as he looks away. 

“Get some fuckin’ sleep, Attano,” he growls out, before exiting to the other room for the night. 

Corvo watches the closed door, a laugh escaping him before he finally moves to sit down on the bed. As soon as he gets off his feet, the weight of his tiredness hits him full force. He barely manages to take his boots off before he’s collapsing onto the sheets and falling fast asleep.


	13. Picking up the Pieces

Corvo awakens to the sound of whale song.

He groans and curses, swinging his legs off of the bed -- _Daud's_ bed, he belatedly remembers -- as he sits up and looks around. The room has taken on a chill that hadn't been there earlier, and the overwhelming pressure of being pulled underwater fills his chest. On the table, the Knife chitters and hums, reverberating loudly, agitated in the gloom. The balcony door is open and beckoning: like a siren, Corvo feels the Void call to him, tugging at his soul.

On the ledge just outside the door, a figure stands. Corvo frowns, thinking it the Outsider at first -- but closer inspection reveals Daud, standing on the precipice and watching the whales swim by. Corvo clenches his fist as he walks out, his Mark burning and itching with the energy of the Void.

Daud turns towards him, arms crossed and eyebrow raised as he gives Corvo a once-over.

“Oh good, you finally woke up.”

“Oh good, _you're_ here too,” Corvo snarks back.

“Trust me, I'm not pleased about it, either. It's been awhile since this bastard's come knocking, and I much prefer the silence to entertaining a whale god's audience.”

Daud walks forward; under his feet, jagged slabs of shining obsidian jut out, leading the way and creating a path to the next platform. Corvo moves to follow before pausing, looking back at the Knife. Behind him, Daud sighs loudly.

“It's the fucking _Void,_ Attano. That cursed Knife of yours isn't going anywhere.”

Corvo glares back at him, blinking over rather quickly, the air rushing past both of them as he joins Daud on the platform. Under him, the stone creaks and moves, and he's momentarily reminded of that monster he saw, jerking and shrieking and made of Void --

“So what do you think is so important that the Outsider’s got both of us here,” Daud mutters sourly, and Corvo pulls himself together, following the other man as he blinks to the next platform.

“It's been a while,” Corvo muses. “Maybe the Outsider wants to pay Its two favorite sorry souls a visit.”

Daud scoffs. “I know for a fact I'm not one of Its _favorites._ The Outsider certainly never liked me enough.”

“You mean after being obsessed and looking up everything you could on the Outsider, you didn't win Its favor? Shocking.” Corvo taunts, amused when he gets the glare he's looking for in response.

“The Outsider doesn't work like that, and you know it. People try to win Its favor all the time, and never get anywhere. _Stalkers_ aren't really the Outsider's type.”

“Oh, but they are _yours,_ aren't they, Daud?”

They both jump, the two of them looking away from each other to glare instead at the appearance of the Outsider. Eyes like coal, the whale god floats in front of them, watching them curiously. Daud growls, teeth bared.

“What kind of greeting is that?”

“A curious one,” the Outsider states plainly. The being smiles and Corvo feels the cold of the Void creep up his spine. “Two of my Marked, working and living together. Truly fascinating, given your history. It’s always been a wonder how you haven't managed to kill each other.”

“Yeah, it's a wonder for us too,” Daud says, while Corvo chimes in “It's certainly crossed my mind once or twice,” at the same time.

They glance at each other. Corvo frowns, eyes turning back to the Outsider, who watches them with what could pass for mild glee.

“It's typical for two of my Marked to meet and try to overpower the other. Even you two: both of you have met at least a few of my Marked, and while you dispose of one, you spare the other.”

The Outsider sweeps Its hand between them, and Corvo stops, looking over at Daud.

“You've met another Marked--?” but Daud just shakes his head, and the Outsider smiles Its dark smile.

“It's quite the tale, dear Corvo, one done to save your daughter and the throne he helped dismantle. But that's his tale, isn't it, and not mine. It's also a story of the past, and I'm far more interested in the story of the present.”

Corvo watches Daud carefully; the other man refuses to meet his eye, his jaw working in his cheek. The Outsider, seemingly oblivious to the silent animosity filling the air, flits between them.

“There is a storm brewing in Morley,” It says, voice everywhere as the Outsider’s form breaks apart and appears at the end of the platform. “Can you both feel it? The air of the island is cold but its people are hot and angry. Eventually the clouds will form, dark and ominous, and my two dear Marked will be caught in the middle of it.”

“We're aware of the Regenters, Outsider,” Daud starts, annoyed. “We know they are trying to overthrow the Empire. I've known that for years-- Why are you telling me now?”

“Because, my obstinate Daud, _now_ is when you need to know,” the Outsider disappears, reappearing so close to Daud that he's nearly face-to-face with the man. “I have been watching you curiously as you play at your charade, trying to escape who you were, who you still are. You take a different name, refuse to kill, but your blade is still sharpened against the whetstone every night. Will it be enough to save your sweet Wyman, or just enough to save yourself?”

“You threaten that kid and we'll see if I can't land a punch and shatter those black eyes of yours,” Daud growls, his Mark flaring to life on his hand. The Outsider just smiles Its empty smile. Above them, a whale floats past, casting them in shadow as it cries its final song.

“There are many paths,” the Outsider says simply. “Not all of them end in success, or in happiness.”

The Outsider's eyes turn to Corvo now, and Daud follows his gaze, swallowing. Corvo shifts, frowning as they both stare him down.

“Corvo,” the Outsider says, as if greeting him for the first time. The false sense of casual pretense makes his hair stand on end. “How has the Knife been treating you?”

“I'm sure you already know that answer,” Corvo states darkly, and the Outsider tilts Its head at him curiously.

“But you know that I _don't._ The Knife is an agent of the Void outside my control; it obscures itself, and truth be told, I'd rather see nothing of it. However, it just so happens to be dreadfully _attached_ to you.”

The Outsider's face saddens.

“I've missed you, dear Corvo. You were always so fascinating, even before I Marked you--predictably unpredictable, fighting as if your life depended on it. Even in Tyvia, your escape was a sight to behold. But after that? Nothing. The Knife hid you completely, and I saw only glimpses of you when you got so far away from it.”

The being folds Its hands behind Its back, turning to Daud.

“So imagine my _surprise_ when I saw you with _Daud,_ the killer of Jessamine, of all people, and in Morley, of all places. I have a strong presence here; the Overseers are sparse and my shrines numerous. But you don't even come to visit, not even to say _hello.”_

“I don't really need to, nor do I particularly _want_ to,” Corvo confesses, and he clenches his fist, suddenly missing the weight of the Knife at his side. The Outsider eyes him curiously, accusingly, before disappearing.

“My Mark was given to you so that you could take back _control,_ Spymaster,” the Outsider says menacingly in his ear. Corvo whirls, heart pounding, those black eyes uncomfortably close. “Will you allow that weapon to undo you like it will one day undo me? There are fates worse than death, as you well know.”

He thinks of Zhukov and his petrified state, thinks of the monster of stone that shrieked and shook and jerked in the most unnatural ways. That cold creep on his spine returns and he swallows, those black eyes seeing into his very soul.

“There are dangers here even for you, Corvo. You will never be free of them, and they will follow you like a ghost. You'll meet someone you thought long gone, and meet someone who wants you long gone. When the time comes to decide their fates, what will you choose? What path will you take, I wonder?”

The Outsider’s form dissolves again, a creeping shadow much more massive than the form It takes implies. Around them Its voice echoes, filling their heads.

“Your window to act is closing, my Marked ones. Will you spend your time wisely, or spend it frivolously fighting each other as the world crumbles around you?”

As if on cue, the Void opens up around them, and they both find themselves thrown back into the real world. Corvo’s stomach flips as he bolts awake, chest heaving in air as if he just broke the surface of the ocean. Instead of the cold hues of the Void, warm morning light filters through, filling the room.

Corvo looks around: the Knife lays where it had been left the night before, quiet and innocent. Across the floor, the chess pieces remain scattered, a leftover casualty of the late night skirmish.

Overcome with a strange urge, Corvo gets up and walks over to the checkered board, picking it up and eying it before setting it on the table. He then proceeds to gather the pieces, searching them out and setting them next to the board, counting each one to see what still needs to be found. He is cursing and reaching for a pawn under the dresser when another voice breaks the silence.

“What in the Void are you doing, Corvo?”

Corvo looks over and grimaces as his arm twists uncomfortably. Daud is there, in his undershirt and slacks, leaning against the door frame to his personal lounge, arms folded, watching Corvo struggle. Corvo grunts, pulling his arm out, flexing empty fingers. He sits back on his legs, motioning to the dresser. In his other hand he holds up a different pawn.

“I'm picking up your damn chess pieces, seeing as it's my fault they are everywhere right now.” He tosses the other pawn to Daud, who catches it, eying the piece tiredly as he pushes off the doorframe. He pads over to Corvo and waves him off; Corvo obligingly moves and Daud looks under the furniture, frowning.

“So far, that's been the hardest one to get--”

Daud grunts noncommittally; his left fist clenches and his Mark glows hot. A quick tug of his arm and the pawn flies towards his hand, his palm ready and open to grab it. He turns the small chess piece in his fingers, wiping the dust off, before tossing it to Corvo. Corvo catches it, watching Daud as he stands up and brushes his pants off.

“That's a nice little trick,” Corvo comments.

“It can come in handy,” he replies back casually. “Didn't help me win my fight against you, though. Any other pieces you need me to grab for you?”

Corvo frowns, remembering the inescapable pull that constituted one of the powers that he and Daud didn't share. “I’m sure I got the rest of them. I would have gotten that one too, eventually. You just caught me at a bad time.”

“You're welcome.”

“I didn't say thank you.”

Daud growls out a sigh, hands on his hips as he shoots Corvo a look of tired irritation.

“God, what _is it_ with you? Is it like a tic? Or are you just that _...casually defensive_ all the time?”

Corvo frowns, playing with the pawn in his fingers, letting it dance around his digits. He watches it instead of looking at Daud, finding the chess piece far more interesting than the other man's annoyance.

“Sorry. It's just easier to push you away, for obvious reasons. I know we have to work together on this. Give me a few days; I'll get past it.”

“Will you?”

Corvo looks over at Daud as the other man glares back, jaw set. He searches his cold blue eyes before looking over his other features: the hard set frown, the nicked scar over his left brow, the large nose and chin inherited from whichever parent wasn't the native Serkonan. He lingers on the long scar marring the whole right side of his face, running from above the eye, thickening over the cheek, before ending just above the jaw.

Corvo’s eyes narrow and he flips the pawn in his hand.

“The Outsider mentioned you met another Marked,” he starts. Immediately he notices how Daud locks up, his whole body seeming to shift away from the conversation topic. Despite this, Corvo ventures further. “The Outsider also said it had something to do with you saving Emily.”

Daud says nothing. Corvo waits a few beats before continuing.

“Look, Daud, I get it, it's a sore topic. But you mentioned this little detail of saving Emily when I first got here, and you can't just assume I _forgot_ about --”

“It's _dealt with,_ Corvo. There's nothing else to talk about.”

The terse response is even more defensive than Corvo expects. He licks his lips, tries again.

“Sure, I can believe that, but is that why you were worried about Emily, because your 'old foe’ was Marked? Is that why it mattered if it had to do with me?”

“I didn't know they were Marked until I found them. Once I realized I was dealing with a witch coven, it was obvious. Truth be told, Corvo, saving Emily was not the original reason I started following those people; their leader tried to turn my second-in-command against me. After that...well, it became a bit more _personal.”_

“Your second? Who-- Thomas?”

“No,” Daud’s voice breaks, as if the memory alone was enough to cause him pain. “No, she was better than Thomas. It was a hard enough blow to be a wake-up call--it made me realize I needed to get my shit together. So I did, and I went after those bitches and ended them once and for all.”

“So, saving Emily…”

“Was a nice side effect--an interesting twist of fate. It amused the Outsider for _months,_ I can assure you. Told me afterwards that It had never seen me work with such _consummate grace.”_

Corvo snorts, shaking his head. “Yeah well, guess he's never seen you dance, then,” he mutters out under his breath.

Daud stares at him.

Before his face can betray him, Corvo tosses the pawn in his hand at Daud. The other man catches it on reflex, looking at the game piece curiously before raising an eyebrow at Corvo. For his part, Corvo is already moving away, creating distance, busying himself so he doesn't have to meet Daud's eyes as they follow him around the room.

“Give me a few days,” He repeats evenly. He gathers his shirt and vest, and clasps his belt back to his side. “I'll get past it.”

A beat passes between them, but Daud finally nods, placated with that answer.

“I'll hold you to it, Attano.”

After that, they ready themselves in relative silence before heading down to breakfast, neither wanting to admit to something other than animosity now hanging in the air between them.

\------

Corvo sits patiently at the table, slowly enjoying his plate of eggs and bread, listening to Daud and Wyman discuss the matters at hand. Daud's men are also there: Thomas, Rinaldo and Misha all listen in, hovering at the other end of the table, chiming in whenever they feel the need to. As Daud voices his concerns, Wyman’s face flashes between interest and worry.

“So, you're sure something is going to go down by the end of the year? That the intel you gathered can be trusted?”

Daud studies a few papers, nodding solemnly. “It hasn't been totally verified, but I have reason to believe that activity has been down the last few weeks because they are rallying for a larger hit.”

Wyman shakes their head, fiery curls falling in their face. “If I'm one of the main targets, can we just head out early? I planned on leaving for Dunwall so that I would be there for Emily's 18th birthday, but if there's a threat, wouldn’t it be best to head out earlier rather than later?”

“No, they have eyes on you. They may just follow you to Dunwall, or Morley could be thrown into chaos while you're gone. Both are an equally likely scenario.”

“So what do you propose to do?”

“Currently, I'm considering staying with you during the day while my men go out with Corvo to search major areas and mingle with the people, see what they can't hear or find.”

Wyman and the bodyguards all raise their eyebrows at Daud. Corvo looks up, more attentive now that his name's been brought to the conversation, and is painfully aware of the whole room looking at him.

“Oh,” Wyman starts, caught somewhere between disbelief and sparkling amusement. “Oh, that is a new development.”

Corvo frowns, leaning forward.

“Let's just say I took your advice,” he directs at Wyman, and their face lights up even further. “Because it's more advantageous for Flint and I to pool together our combined resources. I came here looking for a threat to the Empire originating from Morley; but it turns out that the threat may have come from Dunwall itself and spread to Morley from there.”

“This also means that the threat may be larger than we originally anticipated,” Daud says, going through some old notes of his. “And we may be looking at a group intending to make Morley secede from the Empire entirely.”

Wyman starts, hands fiddling with their buttons. They frown, looking at the table, not meeting anyone's eyes.

“But Morley can't--we aren't financially stable enough as a single country, and we depend too strongly on external imports. Our food infrastructure alone would surely collapse, not to mention the blow it would have on Emily and Gristol as a whole--”

“That's what these people are looking for--an eventual collapse of the whole system,” Corvo chimes in, playing with the stem off his apple. “Whoever these people are, they aren't happy with Emily being Empress and are looking to try and collapse her rule. I have reason to believe this may extend to a Serkonos branch as well.”

“Any word on Tyvia also having a part to play with this?”

“Even if they did, I have no intention of going back there as long as I live,” Corvo supplies grimly, a dark smile on his face. “But no, I haven't heard of anything spreading to Tyvia, not yet.”

“Perhaps they think if they can capture the heart of Serkonos, a strong Empire supporter, then Tyvia will be easier to sway,” Daud muses, and Corvo nods, agreeing.

“But they'll have a hard time while Theodanis is still in power,” Corvo adds. “But we might want to keep our ears open; Luca doesn't seem near as nice as his father. I met him when I was younger--if he's any more pleasant now than he was then, he could spell trouble in the future.”

“That's a bridge we don't have to cross yet, thankfully. Perhaps not at all, if we can stop these Regenters before they gain any more traction.”

Wyman looks between them as they chat, and Corvo can feel Daud's men staring at them, awestruck.

“Flint,” Wyman chimes in. “I don't mean to interrupt this enlightening conversation, but Regenters? As in, supporters of the old Lord Regent?”

Daud pulls the crest of the Lord Regent from his vest pocket, placing it on the table. “Yes. As far as I can tell, they organized the hit on Emily a few years back, as well as a few of the hits on you.”

“So they were part of the Draper's Ward incident? And then in Corvo's subsequent--”

“Yes-- Corvo unfortunately and _unknowingly_ assassinated some key witnesses, which has apparently thrown a wrench in their plans.” Daud pulls out another piece of paper, tapping his gloved fingers against it. He gives Corvo a pointed look. “Hopps. Yagert. Felps. Do those names ring a bell?”

Corvo frowns, sitting up. “Yes, I was tipped off on them being the ones who tried to assassinate Emily. A source, from inside the Tower, gave me their names and motivations. She had plenty of evidence against them.”

Daud stares at him in shock, before wiping a hand over his face. _“She?_ Did you catch her name?”

Corvo feels dread trickle into his gut and he wracks his brain for the memory. “I don't think I did, she wanted to remain anonymous, for her own safety. She worked in Dunwall Tower for years though, as a maid. She was thoroughly spooked after coming across the information and retired shortly after.”

Daud gets up, eyes hard, motioning to Thomas. Immediately, Thomas is also on his feet, jaw set, brown eyes flashing. When Daud nods to him, he is out the door in an instant, leaving the other two bodyguards tense and nervous at the table.

“Flint, what is it?” Wyman's voice sounds worried but their face is hard, determined. Corvo can feel himself tightening like a spring.

“Wyman, if it's alright with you, we are going to have to reorganize your schedule. Is there anything pressing you need to complete before year's end?”

“I'll have to check, but I think I only have a few more stores to look into before closing the books and starting fresh next year.”

“If you go out, Thomas and I will be with you, no exceptions. Other than that, you're not to make a public appearance. If it's not a pressing meeting, you're to cancel.”

“But, Flint--” Wyman starts, agitation filling their words. “I refuse to be intimidated by these people, you know that. They're _my_ people, this is still Morley, and when mother died I vowed I wouldn't let that stop me from helping make things right.”

“This isn't about you being intimidated, but about your safety being my number one priority,” Daud says, voice as unrelenting as his stony eyes. “I fear these people won't try and kill you now, but instead try to use you for a larger scheme--and I refuse to see you tortured.”

“I can handle that, Flint,” Wyman argues.

“I don't know if _I_ can, Wyman.”

There's a desperate tone underlying Daud's words that gives Wyman pause, their mouth snapping shut, their gentle brow creasing. Corvo feels the shift in atmosphere; at the other end of the table, Rinaldo and Misha fidget, as if personally affected.

Corvo finds himself, not for the first time, struck with a mild awe over Daud's capacity for unfaltering loyalty.

“Okay,” Wyman says softly, knowing this is a fight that they can't win. “The Month of Songs starts in a few days. Will there be enough time for you to sort this out before Fugue?”

“It will be tight, but we'll sort it out,” Corvo supplies, offering his support wholly as the table turns to him. “You’d be surprised what a single person can accomplish inside of just a week, given enough determination.”

Corvo's grin then goes sideways, guileless and cocky.

“Besides, you've got the best bodyguard and spymaster in the Isles working with you now. Sorry, Flint but you're still second best on that front, in my opinion.”

Wyman laughs as Daud rolls his eyes at Corvo.

“We'll see about that. He is right, though; Wyman, you're in the best hands. We'll deal with this as swiftly as we can.”

Wyman nods, eyes shining, their gentle smile back on their face. “Excellent. And my body armor prototype is ready; I'll need you later to try it out.”

“Of course,” Daud bows, and as the briefing adjourns, he motions to Corvo to follow him and his remaining guards out the room. Corvo blinks owlishly after him before snatching a last pear off the table and following them through the door

As soon as he walks out of the room, he's greeted with a dark look from Daud and his men. Corvo frowns but Daud is already turning to leave, still motioning for Corvo to follow. He trots over, doing his best to match Daud's swift pace.

“Hey, you wanna hang on a second and explain what just happened back there?”

“Not here. We're heading outside. Rinaldo, watch the perimeter for me.”

The taller man nods, keeping an eye on everyone around them. Corvo keeps his head down, hand itching to pull the Void over his eyes and look for eavesdroppers himself. Instead he tries to meet Daud's eye, but every time he does, Daud just shakes his head, looking away. He doesn't talk or slow his pace until they are out in the back gardens, near the stables.

Corvo looks around, feeling oddly exposed in the overcast light, but Rinaldo still nods out the all-clear. As soon as he does, Daud grabs Corvo's arm, his grip threatening.

“Is everything you said in that room true?”

Corvo glances down at the hand Daud has on his arm, the Mark making his touch burn hot even while concealed under the leather glove. Corvo then looks up, meeting Daud's eye, suspicion coloring his features.

“Yes,” he says slowly. “Why? What's gotten into you?”

 _“Shit,_ Corvo, are you that much of an idiot that you'd fall for something like the Loyalists again? After everything that happened?!” Daud's growl is palpable, the anger manifesting in the burn of his Mark.

Corvo's eyes squint at Daud, searching his features. “What the hell are you talking about--”

“That maid. In the Tower. You said she tipped you off about the Hatters Gang?”

“Yes.”

“You didn't find that a _little_ suspicious at the time? You didn't think to double check her source, figure out where she found her information?”

Corvo's brain reels. “I did, I double checked it with my own sources and it came up clean. It filled all my missing gaps and so I took care of it, like I always planned--”

“Corvo,” Daud cuts him off, his anger carrying a terribly worried edge. “The person who claimed to have seen you kill those people was a woman. She had fled the Draper's Ward in fear of retaliation from _you.”_

“And you think they might be the same person?” Corvo offers skeptically, and Daud's eyes dart around, his jaw working. Both Misha and Rinaldo are now keeping an eye on their surroundings, making completely sure they're alone. The only break in the mid-morning silence is the horses: a cob whinnies from stables, restless and bored. Daud licks his lips before continuing, meeting Corvo's incredulous glare.

“She's the only person who knew about it, and you _swear_ that nobody saw you because nobody knew you were even there. Nobody--except the person who tipped you off to the hit in the first place. On top of this, you said she retired to flee to safety right after!”

“But why would she give me a hit just to use it against me?”

Daud’s sigh is deep and ragged, and he shakes his head. _“Seriously,_ Corvo? All the people you've killed, and you don't think you've made one enemy?”

“I don't think _that,_ I just would never assume one of the maids, especially one that had been around since Jessamine was Empress. They've been nothing but good, well-paid workers. I've never treated them badly. I've no reason to suspect them.”

“Corvo. We are dealing with a group of people upset with how you… _creatively_ _disposed_ of the Regent inside the Tower itself.” Corvo scoffs, rolling his eyes as he shakes Daud off his arm, but Daud clings on, growling again. “Don’t _laugh,_ you literally took the Regent’s heart out of his chest and _pinned it to his sleeve.”_

“A better idea than sticking a piece of sharp of metal in his eye, I might add,” Corvo quips back, but Daud remains as unamused as ever. Corvo feels the heat rise to his face. “Okay, _okay,_ I went a little overboard on that one--”

“A _little?”_

Corvo suddenly glares hard at Daud, lip curling. "He’s the reason Jessamine is dead. He was a spineless coward of a man who nearly destroyed the entire Isles by bringing Pandyssian rats carrying the plague to our shores. So yes, I do believe he got the ending he deserved.”

“You really _aren't_ regretful of that assassination, are you.”

“No. And honestly, before I knew the truth of everything, I had something almost as creative and poetic concocted for you, too.”

There is an awkward silence that falls over all of them. Misha turns his head to look at Corvo, his eyebrows shooting up towards his hairline. Daud doesn't move; he doesn't even blink. Corvo fidgets, shifting from foot to foot.

“Come on,” he goads, a small grin splitting his face. “You have to be curious now, on how I was going to kill you.”

When Daud doesn't respond, he nudges Daud with his elbow. Daud snorts, lip twitching slightly.

“Fine. I'll humor you. How did you plan on killing me, assuming you still won't follow through?”

“Before I knew you were holed up in the Flooded District, I expected to find you in the tower, working with Regent, all cozy as his Royal Assassin. I imagined it would have been fun to first kill the regent, then his men, and then thrown his head into your room. After that, I would have shown you _her_ heart, the heart you stabbed and then the Outsider gave me. It would have told you how I planned on killing you, how I dreamt of that moment, and how I hated no one else in the world more. Then before you could blink away, I would shove your own blade in your chest, through _your_ heart, and left hers with you as a final resting place.”

Daud is silent. Misha looks pale, and doesn't meet Corvo's eye. Nobody speaks, until--

“That wouldn't have worked and you know it. You didn't even account for my powers or double-check to make sure I wasn't also planning on killing the Regent.”

“I wasn't thinking that far ahead. And it was mostly a power fantasy to get me through the shittiest Month of Darkness I've ever had.”

“I think no matter what, we were destined for dueling. You could have at least included a duel, for old time’s sake.”

“I didn't know it was _you_ at the time! Besides, you clearly had that part covered, you had a monologue and everything ready for me for when I finally showed up.”

“Yeah, well, you weren't the only one with my demise on the mind for near six months.”

“I don't mean to interrupt,” supplies Rinaldo coolly, still surveying the area. “But do you two always casually shoot the breeze about how you want to kill each other?”

Corvo looks at Rinaldo like he just appeared; he had forgotten that Daud's men were even there, listening to the morbid conversation. He hears Daud fight back a laugh.

“You still worried this amateur is actually going to _succeed_ in killing me, Rinaldo?”

“Considering his latest attempt was just last night, it's certainly on the mind, sir.”

“I've got my back covered thanks to people like you, Rinaldo. For now, just see the death threats as a sort of running joke.

“Amateur? _Running joke?”_ Corvo fumes and Daud ignores him.

“Either way, my death by Corvo's blade isn't the most pressing issue right now. We need to focus on finding this woman and questioning her and her motivations. Thomas is currently searching where we last heard about her, to see if there are any leftover clues. Corvo, I can't be sure, but she may have tried to use you in the past, so you will have to be extra careful.”

“Do the Regenters even know for sure that I'm in Morley?”

“Considering you didn't bring that mask with you and you're staying with Wyman, chances are they have an unconfirmed suspicion and will be looking for you.”

“So stealth is key moving forward.”

“As always. But until Thomas gets back from his scouting, we won't be able to move forward with anything. For now, all we can do is wait. Once he returns, we'll split into groups and head out to cover more ground.”

“I like him,” Corvo says, pointing to Rinaldo. Misha and Rinaldo both look at him, surprised. “If I’m going to work with your men, can I have him?”

Rinaldo looks at Corvo steadily before raising his eyebrows towards Daud.

“Only if Rinaldo doesn't object,” he responds when he meets the guard's questioning stare. “Rinaldo?”

“That's fine by me, sir, but only if Corvo doesn't plot my demise as intricately as he plotted yours.”

“I can stop time and possess people, and I have an active imagination, so I make no promises. It could make for a great training exercise if we get bored, though.”

“Just another day at the office then.”

“Oh yes, I _really_ like him, Daud.”

“Keep it in your pants, Attano,” Daud growls out, and Rinaldo laughs. After that, they all trail back inside to wait out the day until Thomas’ return.

\------

As time wears on, the weather only worsens. In typical Morley fashion, the forecast turns wet, warm, and humid; the rain starts slow and heavy in the late morning, refusing to let up for the rest of the day. The distant rumblings of thunder roll over the hills, a soft sound that doesn't threaten as much as it should.

The cool breeze that moves through the shooting range worries at Corvo more, cooling the hot air, making the steam rise and evening fog gather. Corvo keeps an eye trained on the dummy target 15 meters out, concentrating on staying still while Wyman takes his measurements.

“So how much have you tested on this material?” Corvo asks casually while Wyman works.

The target has some of the material draped over its shoulders, obscuring the dummy's chest and midriff. Leaning off to the side of the shooting range box is Daud, eyes also fixed on the dummy. He’s set aside his large coat in favor of just a shirt and vest, but has all his weapons strapped to his waist and bandolier. Most of them would be seeing use soon enough.

“Mostly knives and swords; it tends to resist the blade fairly well and has a nice quality of causing steel to slip instead of slice. A blade tip needs considerable force to even break the fabric, but the metal won't bend or shatter like it would against armor. Knives tend to have an easier time cutting through, since the blade is shorter, but they do have the same sliding problem.”

“Anything else?” Corvo asks Daud, raising an arm as Wyman takes its length and width. Daud ticks off fingers, listing off what he can remember.

“Spears will potentially slip, and need considerable force to break through. Harpoons with their serrated edges designed for whale skin clearly are a superior weapon but they are heavy and hardly used against humans. Shrapnel gets snagged and caught in the weave before making it to the body.”

“Oh, that's not bad at all,” Corvo says, impressed. “How long has this been in development, Wyman?”

Wyman beams.

“About a year and a half. Very top secret stuff— I like to think it's quite espionage-worthy, with high flexibility and maximized protection. Okay, you're good, I have all my measurements. Thank you, Corvo.”

Corvo drops his arms and moves over to his weapons while Wyman makes some final notes on Corvo's measurements.

“Broad shoulders on a thin, muscular frame. Just like I suspected, but I was only partially right in my guesses for your piece…” Wyman mutters to themselves, scribbling away while Corvo gathers his pistol and checks the safety and bullet count. “No matter, though! Your body armor will be specially fitted, and I should have it ready around the same time Emily's and Alexi’s will be complete. A fitting birthday present, don't you think?”

Corvo looks over at Wyman now: they are lost in thought, face flushed, bouncing the pencil in their hand against the notepad.

“You do think it's a good gift, don't you, Corvo? Should I do more? Not that I have much to offer from Morley, the country is mostly sheep and horses and potatoes and some whale oil and not much else--”

“Of course it's a good gift, Wyman,” Corvo replies belatedly, pausing Wyman's nervous ramblings. They flush even more, their face nearly taking on a similar hue to their hair. “And something Emily will love; she's always had such an interest of running off and getting herself into trouble, even as Empress.”

“Yes, of course,” Wyman says again. They look off and Corvo eyes them, sensing something more. He waits, checking his other weapons and ammunition, watching them fidget.

Finally, Wyman looks down, adjusting their buttons as they say softly, “I'm also hoping to talk with Emily about making a public announcement on our relationship. If-- if that's okay with--”

Corvo feigns surprise. From the corner, Corvo hears a snort and sees Daud shake his head. “Of course I'm fine with it, Wyman, why wouldn't I be?”

“Well, you are her father, and Emily is just turning 18, and people will probably have things to say about it but…”

“Wyman, Jessamine was seven years my younger and she crushed on me long before we started dating when she turned 18. And that was a dirty secret; if anything, Emily will _want_ her relationships public if only because her mother and mine’s _wasn't.”_

“I suppose that is true,” Wyman says, still checking the buttons on their vest. “Well, as long as I have your blessing, I can have a little more courage about it.”

“Are you planning on asking for her hand?”

Wyman jumps, stammering, their face going a bright scarlet. “No! No, I don't think Emily or I are ready for that sort of commitment. We just--we just want to be _together.”_

Corvo laughs, cleaning the Knife and slipping it back into its holder. “Then you'll be fine. Jessamine and I got up to enough mischief that there's nothing I could judge you and Emily for. You have my blessing.”

Thank you, Corvo, it--it means a lot.”

Corvo nods to them, a soft smile on his lips, amused by the young noble’s nervousness. His eyes flick to the corner; Daud is watching him, listening, but as soon as their eyes meet he's looking down and away, jaw set. Corvo swallows, feeling the familiar creep of anger into his gut and doing his best to push it back down. The Knife chitters at his side and he puts a hand on it to quiet it.

He told Daud he could get past this and he's determined to do just that. How long that will actually take, however, is up for debate.

Corvo glances back to Daud and sees him no longer avoiding his eye contact, but instead focused on something else entirely. Corvo follows his gaze back over his shoulder; in the gloom emerges Thomas, looking tired and unhappy. Daud stands up straight, putting a hand on Wyman’s shoulder, whispering out a quick _“excuse me”_ before joining his second.

Wyman watches quietly and curiously, keeping a soft eye on their bodyguard at all times. Corvo turns to watch as well, as Thomas pulls a few documents out of his coat and hands them carefully to Daud.

Daud reads over each page, eyes searching the words and phrases multiple times before moving on. The Knife rings more persistently; Corvo tightens his grip on the hilt, his hand wrapping pulling uncomfortably.

“Corvo,” Daud says finally, not looking at him. “I need you.”

Corvo blinks in surprise before obliging, curiously joining them. Daud hands the papers to him, face hard.

“Get Rinaldo. I need you to check an area and you'll need backup. Your lady might be there, and it might be our best lead.”

Corvo’s brow furrows, skimming the notes Thomas collected. They mention the docks area, plus caves, inlets, and a fish market. Shipment times and dates are also mentioned, all going into Wynnedown as opposed to out. A name pops out: Dana Amode.

“She should be there?”

“Yes,” Thomas croaks out, voice hoarse from fatigue. “But be careful, the place is pretty well guarded. I couldn't get to her because it was fairly dangerous and very close to the cliffs. Most of the area is in a hard to reach location, and I just don't have the ability to get there undetected.”

“And _you_ have to stay here with Wyman,” Corvo adds, nodding to Daud. Daud nods back.

“I can't risk leaving them, not right now. Let me summon Rinaldo to send him off with you. It's getting dark, so that should help. If anything happens, send Rinaldo back as quick as you can.”

“Got it.”

“Oh, and Corvo?”

“Hm?”

 _“Alive,_ please,” Daud affirms, and Corvo rolls his eyes before excusing himself and disappearing into the darkness. Rinaldo is already waiting, the rain partially obscuring his tall dark figure, as he waits for Corvo in the gathering gloom.

“It’s a ways to the alcoves from here,” Rinaldo tells him as he nears, pulling his hood up against the rain. “Think you'll have the stamina for it?”

“I'll be fine,” Corvo tells him, the thrum of the Knife eager at his waist. The power of the Void surges into his limbs, ready to be used. “Just lead the way.”

Together, they head out, melting into the storm like ghosts, leaving the light of the Rodagh estate to disappear into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait on this chapter! I've been really busy in real life and trying to get all my ducks in a row. I really love this chapter though, it's a nice long one. Enjoy my dudes!


	14. Wayward

If someone was going to choose a place to hide in Wynnedown, Corvo is certain these treacherous cliffside docks are high on the list of potential spots to hole up in.

The area he and Rinaldo find themselves investigating is entirely nestled next to and inside of the cliffs at the edge of the city, where the pounding of the waves make for a relentless, constant presence. The ferocity of the cold water is enough to make one wonder why Wynnedown chose this location specifically for docking and cargo, but a closer look reveals special alcoves hidden among the rocks. They weave under the cliffs like a three-dimensional maze; the thin caverns lead to quiet recesses nestled deep in the weathered bedrock.

The location is detectable in the light of day by the heavy girders and rafters used to support the fragile shaped sandstone. The web of metal that continues high above and under the outer parts of Wynnedown Castle is added to every year, staving off cave-ins and collapse as the water continues its relentless battering. While some passages are simply too thin for anything but nesting seabirds, others are wide enough to fit whole freighters for unloading, the ships following the calmer waters to a hidden waterlock to unload their precious royal cargo.

The downside to this secluded area is that during high tide or inclement weather, the alcoves are all but inaccessible from the ocean and hard to approach from land. As a result, most other docks are situated far from the harrowing rocks and water -- closer to the center of the city, where the current is less temperamental, allowing commercial and private ships to come and go more easily.

Corvo glares down at the collection of large buildings situated near the outer cavern openings. Between the fat, pelting raindrops and the sting of the ocean spray carried on the angry breeze, he’s wishing they were investigating any other docking station than this one. Rinaldo stands tall next to him, just as thoroughly waterlogged and disgruntled.

“This is the place, then?” Corvo asks, raising his voice over the sound of the waves. “The Saoi Alcoves and Lifts?”

Barely visible in the darkness, Rinaldo nods from under his hood.

“Yes, if Thomas’s findings are correct. Many of the more valuable goods come into the city through these passages. Whale oil, Tyvian silks, Serkonan silver; these cliffs make it hard for looters to access and therefore are excellent -- if not dangerous -- places to unload precious cargo. Everything else tends to come in and out of the mid-city docks, where the water is calmer and not so hazardous.”

Corvo frowns down at the small collection of structures, scouting out watchtowers and looking for guard patrols. They're still too far away from the buildings to get a good assessment through the rain, not with the main objective farther in and hidden behind rock and waves. Corvo motions to Rinaldo and they both blink off towards the buildings, closing the distance as quickly as they can. As they near, Corvo carefully hugs the slippery cliff wall, with Rinaldo right behind.

“From what Daud briefed me, our woman -- Amode, I believe -- should be inside, waiting for a shipment from Dunwall tonight,” Rinaldo supplies as they flit between the buildings, clinging to the wet and algae-slicked rocks. “This isn't anything out of the ordinary, but we should still be cautious. Whenever Wyman visits, this place is always under heavy surveillance.”

Corvo winces back as a large wave crashes into the cliff far below them. Even though the water is still many meters away, the spray could be felt even from where they are hiding, channeled through the narrow spaces in the rock and stone. As they enter the alcoves the rain finally relents, but the sting of water and salt only gets worse, running down and off the cave walls and filling their ears with every slow drip and breaking wave.

They round a corner and find themselves close to a large building: a receiving station nestled into the caves and at the end of a docking lift. The device is very similar to the one the Tower uses back in Dunwall -- albeit much larger and more involved to accommodate the ships and cargo brought in here. The building itself is long; half of it disappears into and reinforces the cave that houses it.

Corvo pulls his hood off and shakes out the excess water, squinting against the darkness and reflected light. Behind him, he hears Rinaldo do the same, grumbling about needing new boots. Corvo waves a hand to quiet him, not keen on the way their voices bounce and echo in the cavern. Carefully, he pulls the Void over his vision, looking for nearby guards or items -- anything useful to start with. He spots a vent leading in from the far wall; without even thinking, he clenches his fist and blinks over to the building and onto the roof. In his ears he hears a soft exclamation from Rinaldo -- but the Void is already carrying him away, the words dying in a rush of wind.

Immediately Rinaldo is next to him, grabbing at his arm before he can go any further. Corvo twitches out of his next blink and looks at him questioningly.

“Corvo,” he says quietly, with no malice or annoyance. “We need to have a plan before we enter the building.”

Corvo squints at him, motioning again to be quiet. Even the smallest whisper is a carrying echo in the alcove, and Corvo can't help but instinctively stiffen as each movement brings a new, too-loud whisper.

But Rinaldo only huffs, shaking his head. “There's no one in this building, Corvo,” he whispers out, the sound morphing into a hiss as it bounces around the walls.

Corvo frowns. Quickly, he pulls the Void over his eyes again, peering down into the building below him. Meticulously, he scans for anything of import, looking for bodies, for guard routes, but nothing appears.

Rinaldo is right; this building is unnervingly… _deserted._

Paranoia creeps like a cold drip into his stomach and the Knife chitters quietly in response to his growing fear.

“You're sure this is the right place?” Corvo whispers, wincing as his words are uncharacteristically amplified. Rinaldo nods, his low voice barely a rumble over the sound of the waves.

“I'm assured; this is the main docking station. All shipments _have_ to come here, nowhere else is the water calm enough.”

“Yet there's a shipment coming tonight, and nobody here to receive it?”

Rinaldo nods, shifting, visibly mirroring Corvo's unease.

“Exactly. This feels suspicious, and a plan should be in place in case something happens.”

“Agreed,” Corvo replies, eyes looking from Rinaldo to the building and back again. He's quiet for a long time as he plots out a course of action. Rinaldo waits.

And waits.

Corvo’s self-consciousness mounts as Rinaldo stands silent behind him, waiting for any word Corvo may give him.

“Even if the guards are questionably missing,” Corvo starts, his hushed voice carrying. “We should still scout the perimeter before heading indoors. There's multiple entrances from up here on the roof; before you stopped me, I was planning on slipping in through a large vent, or an open window.”

“And what do you need me to do?”

Corvo swallows, and can feel his trepidation rising. He glances sidelong at Rinaldo before looking away, fist clenching.

“Well, what are you good at? What are you comfortable with?”

“I'm not killing stragglers, if that's what you're asking.”

Corvo's head shakes furiously, holding his hands up.

“No, no, I mean-- what do you excel at? If Daud needed you to perform, what's your best role? What can I trust you with?”

Rinaldo's eyebrows go up and he looks at Corvo coolly.

“Do you trust me enough in the first place, Lord Attano?”

Corvo's throat closes up awkwardly as his brain works furiously. _Did_ he trust Rinaldo? A man who worked under Daud for who knows how long, who possibly had a hand in Jessamine's death?

When he takes too long to formulate a response, Rinaldo just laughs under his breath. It is a soft sound, lacking any aggression, and invites Corvo to look back to him.

“You aren't used to having someone else around for these missions, are you?”

“No, I'm not,” Corvo admits sheepishly, feeling far too relieved at the change of subject. “I usually do this alone and I tend to improvise as I go. I'm not used to trusting anyone but myself, and it is also still odd for me to be trusting--” he fights for the words, motioning towards Rinaldo with a hand. “Well, _you_.”

“Does it put your heart at ease to know I took no part in your Empress’s assassination?”

Corvo’s jaw works; he wasn't expecting that kind of confession, or for Rinaldo to be so on-the-nose about what was troubling him.

“I don't -- that wasn't why I--” he takes a breath and counts to five, calming his mind. With an unending patience, Rinaldo waits, giving Corvo the time he needs. “Truth be told, Rinaldo, I don't know if it does or not. My brain is still wrapping around how I feel about working with Daud, which is a larger, more personal stumbling block. It's natural to not trust you, but I _need_ to trust you for this, and I promise I can and I will.”

His fingers flex, begging for the Void to take him anywhere that's _away_ from this conversation.

“I'm just--”

“Not used to it?”

“Yes,” Corvo breathes out, his shoulders sagging. “I don't trust people by default, and it has nothing to do with who you… may or may not have killed in the past. I do appreciate your honesty, though, Rinaldo. Thank you for telling me.”

“Of course, Corvo.” There is a genuine smile lingering there and Corvo can't help but return it.

“Now--” Corvo says, waving a hand. “What's _your_ specialty? What are you good at?”

“Close quarters combat and reconnaissance,” he states in a practiced, professional clip. Corvo looks over his tall, broad frame and nods.

“How is your non-lethal takedown?”

Rinaldo reaches into his coat and pulls out a small bone charm. It sings softly in the darkness as Rinaldo tosses it in the air, catching it before pocketing it again.

“With this little charm, I can choke out pretty much anyone in an instant.”

Corvo’s eyebrows raise. “I found a similar bone charm in the Flooded District while I was there.”

“I know,” Rinaldo says plainly. “It was mine. I had to craft a new one on my own after you left. Never works as well as the one Daud gave me, but it gets the job done all the same.”

“I still have that bone charm at the Tower, somewhere. If we make it out of this city, I'll be sure to get it back to you.”

“I look forward to it, Lord Attano. But first, let's get into this building and then back out, preferably in one piece.”

Corvo agrees. Quietly, they work together to set down a plan of attack. It ends up with Rinaldo transversing off, doing scout work around the perimeter and keeping an eye and an ear to the ground. When he returns, he confirms what they both suspected; not a soul was in the building. Not only that, but no traps were set prior around the perimeter. By all appearances, it should be a clean and easy mission, with little to no resistance.

The idea alone makes Corvo’s skin crawl.

“So, what do you think?” Corvo asks, as the two of them reconverge on the roof. “Good to go in?”

“I will follow your lead, Lord Attano.”

Corvo grimaces, blinking over to the window and carefully crawling in.

“You know you can call me Corvo, Rinaldo. I've never been comfortable thinking of myself a 'lord’ of anything.”

“It's a sign of respect, Lord Attano,” Rinaldo calmly replies, following Corvo in through the window. “I also call Daud 'Sir’ or ‘Master’ than I ever do his name, no matter which name he chooses to go by.”

Corvo curls his nose, quietly checking over the small office they find themselves in. “Speaking of names, _Castor Flint?_ It doesn't seem like Daud to lie behind a name.”

Despite the subtle jab, Rinaldo remains as calm as ever. “I believe the name _Castor Flint_ has personal significance and was used not to lie, but to start anew. I don't think he ever foresaw a need to return to the name Daud. In turn, changing his name protected ours: Thomas, Misha, and I never had to change a thing about ourselves but our location and occupation.”

Corvo frowns, chewing his cheek while he rifles through a few drawers. “How long have you known Daud, Rinaldo?”

“Twelve years, Lord Attano.”

Corvo finds an elixir and a loaf of bread left behind; he pockets each item, giving his hands something to do. “Can I ask why you are all so loyal to him? Why he is so loyal to you all in turn?”

Rinaldo regards him quietly before answering.

“I have a feeling you already know the answer to _that_ question, Attano.”

“Humor me?” Corvo asks, inviting a response instead of demanding one. Rinaldo considers him for a moment, watching Corvo fidget with a handful of coins, before finally responding.

“He gave us a reason to keep living. I suspect we gave him a reason to live, too. It is that sort of loyalty we fall into.”

Corvo turns away from Rinaldo, digesting that information. Could it really be that easy? Do they all follow an ex-assassin because they see him as something… _more_ than the man he was, or the man he became? He glances over at the boduguarf, tall and imposing, a question leaving his lips before he can dare himself to stop it.

“Do you trust _me_ , Rinaldo?”

He can see Rinaldo’s shoulders rise and fall, the soft sound of a sigh escaping in the night air.

“I trust you for this job because _Daud_ trusts you with it. I have no reason to question his judgement.”

Corvo's mouth runs unpleasantly dry. Daud has no reason to trust Corvo, a man who just tried to kill him _\--again--_ less than a day ago. He shakes his head, face hard.

“Of course, I'm sorry to pry.”

“It’s fine. We all know your curiosity is legendary, Lord Attano.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Corvo asks, affronted, but Rinaldo just chuckles and waves for him to continue. Corvo shoots him a steely look.

“I'm thinking of taking back how I said I like you,” Corvo grumbles as he turns back to his search of the office space. He hears Rinaldo laugh behind him and can't help but smile in response. That smile, however, falters when his eyes graze a document settled amongst the mail and errant letters.

It's hard to say what it is about the page that catches Corvo’s eye. When he reads it over, it is quite plain; a catalogue of the comings and goings of royal cargo boats, bringing in scheduled deliveries. Much of the goods are slated to go directly to the king and queen, being processed here at the docking facility before being moved through carved tunnels. It's all very formal, neat, and precise.

Something about it sets his teeth on edge.

“Rinaldo, how far back does this cave system go?”

“The network of alcoves and caves travel all the way up to the bottom of the castle, a twisting maze created generations ago. This alcove acts as the king and queen’s private trading spot and allows for the more silent movement of sensitive and expensive materials.”

“So does the Rodagh family see these? Are they aware of where this money is going?"

Rinaldo blinks. “Yes. The Rodagh family handles all of the royal shipments; they are required to sign off of on it as a secondary witness should something ever happen. Rodagh is the only trading name the Royal House trusts with such matters.”

Corvo hands him the paper, and Rinaldo scans the page quickly, his eyes going wide.

“What is it?” Corvo asks, looking to confirm his personal unease.

“Neither Wyman or their father ever approved this cargo coming in.” His eyes dart over the words as he reads further. “But... I don't understand why not, it’s just whale oil coming in from Dunwall.”

Corvo’s eyes narrow. “Whale oil?”

“Whale oil,” Rinaldo repeats. “Refined, ready for use, packaged specifically for the king and queen.”

Corvo's brow furrows, his brain working furiously. He asks for the page back, reading through it a few more times, looking for anything that feels suspicious, or out of place. But nothing shows itself, no words stand out. It's like all the other documents he'd found so far, carefully covering tracks and plans.

Except this one slipped, in that Rodagh didn't sign off. And that _was_ suspicious, which gave them somewhere to start.

“Come on, let's keep searching.”

They head out into the hallway at a clipped pace, splitting up and checking each end. The place is almost eerily still; despite the lack of anyone being in the building, Corvo still keeps expecting _some_ kind of resistance. It's far too quiet with just the two of them, and Corvo can't shake the feeling of missing something, of being watched, of being _followed._

Perhaps it's because he knows there will be a shipment tonight, so there should be _some_ people here to receive it. Especially a discreet shipment that Wyman -- or perhaps even the king and queen -- doesn’t know about.

Corvo pulls more and more energy from the Knife, his gaze almost constantly that of the Void, the world distorted and hazy as he searches for clues or keys or even just signs of life. His unease grows; it's all too calm, the mission too easy. He stops time, searching three rooms before Rinaldo has even gone through one.

He sighs in frustration, pocketing a tin of ox tongue for later as he resumes time next to Rinaldo. Rinaldo doesn't startle when Corvo suddenly appears, and Corvo has to give him credit for having such good nerves.

“Find anything yet?” Corvo asks. The longer they search without finding anything, the more his skin prickles and the Knife threateningly sings. It reverberates under his fingers and Rinaldo glances down at it before meeting Corvo's eyes.

“The only thing I've found is that there may be a room in the back and downstairs that could be worth checking out. There was a note here about holding someone for information, but nothing else.”

Corvo looks down the long hall and clenches his fist, rapidly blinking to cover the ground quickly. He pauses at a doorway leading out to the back of the building: it heads to a series of intricately carved and lit tunnels disappearing into the cliff side. To his left is another door; he tries it and finds it locked. He sighs heavily and is in the middle of debating on trying to wind blast it open when Rinaldo casually catches up with him, a key spinning around his finger.

“Looking for this?”

Corvo looks at him, impressed. “You found the key?”

“Reconnaissance is my specialty, remember? I would have given it to you earlier but you had already transversed off.” He hands Corvo the key delicately. Corvo takes it and nods up at him.

“Okay, you won me over. I still like you.”

Rinaldo laughs. “Glad to hear it.”

Corvo unlocks the door and peeks through before opening it the rest of the way. He and Rinaldo are met with a warehouse stairwell. The humidity of the boiler room below hits his face, making the sweat prickle on his neck as he moves out on the landing, carefully stepping down the stairs.

The trap on the first landing sets his nerves on fire even more than they had been earlier. He disarms it easily and without much fuss, but his heart still hammers in his chest, the blood rushing in his ears. He tosses the crossbow bolt back to Rinaldo who catches it, frowning.

“Something is down here that they don't want us to find,” Corvo rasps out, voice catching in the thick air. “Scout ahead, but be careful of traps and mines. I don't want you hurt.”

Rinaldo nods, eyes hard. He transverses down the rest of the way, moving like a ghost. Corvo watches him go, following at a slower, more careful pace.

The descent leads him into a maintenance room, situated under the building and regulating water and ventilation. A whale oil canister dispenser sits in the corner, waiting to fuel any necessary machinery in the room. Corvo crouches down, Knife out, pulling the Void over his eyes before moving too far in. A few things immediately catch his attention: he sees Rinaldo, bright as day, flitting in and of his vision, he sees an office room to his right with an audiograph and some documents, and he sees something far off and more troubling than everything else combined.

Corvo frowns, pulling the Void from his eyes. Rinaldo is suddenly next to him; there's a worry in his heavy brow that wasn't there before.

“Corvo,” Rinaldo starts, and the use of the first name makes his eyebrows raise. “There's a hostage here.”

Corvo’s breath catches before escaping with a curse.

“They're still alive,” Rinaldo reassures. “I've already checked the room; there's just the one person down here.”

Corvo nods, patting Rinaldo on the arm. “Good job. Stay with them; I need to check the office first, but I'll be with you shortly to figure out what we need to do.”

Rinaldo shakes his head in agreement and then he is gone again in a whisper of smoke and ash. As soon as he is away, Corvo takes a steadying breath, sliding into the office as quickly as he can. He wastes no time finding the audiograph he spotted earlier, slipping the card into place. The machine whirrs to life and a female voice fills the tight space.

_It's been two months, or longer now, since I left Dunwall. It's been weeks since I last heard from Grisby. I fear he didn't make it; it's the only explanation. Corvo most likely caught him when he didn't make the boat and now that monster is after me too. I haven't seen him in Morley yet, but if he gets just a whiff of the crown being threatened, he'll be on it like a wolfhound to a meat bone. I proved that myself; he went straight to Draper's Ward, no questions asked, and just slaughtered them all. Or at least, he killed the important ones, which is more than enough. Enough for me to slip back in and take the money I needed to run off to Morley with the Regenters. Even if I fabricated some of those deaths, the Regenters still believed me anyway. They’ll believe anything as long as it makes Corvo and the Empress look bad. It's not hard to sway them enough to find safe passage among them._

_They are getting close to starting something big, though. I can't believe how far they have gone, how far_ I’ve _gone, just to get that monster of Dunwall removed for good. They even found his sister here; we've been asking her questions, seeing if she knows anything else about the old Royal Protector, but nothing has come out of it. I had the Overseers try using the ancient music on her too; it does nothing, so at least we know she isn't also a heretic, like her brother. Perhaps she can be an ally in the future._

_I can't say anything more now. There's a shipment coming in tonight; one last haul before everything is set and ready. We'll overturn Morley, then have plenty of time to hit Dunwall by the Feast. And what a Fugue it will be! If I'm lucky I'll see both the Empress and her father publicly executed, and see the land given back to the people. After the plague, Jessamine's death, and how much Corvo tore the Tower apart...nothing would bring me a greater sense of contentment than seeing his line ended for good._

The player clicks loudly and the woman's voice cuts off, filling the room with silence. Corvo's ears, however, fill with the sound of his rushing blood and the buzzing of the Knife. He’s out of the office in an instant, grabbing the audiograph card and any papers on the desk. Not a moment later and he’s appearing next to Rinaldo, a flurry of light and rushing air, the Knife thrumming angrily at his side. He puts a hand on Rinaldo’s shoulder to steady himself, all color draining from his face.

_“Beatrici.”_

Sure enough, just as the audiograph had implied, Corvo's sister sits in the chair, tied and bound, black hair falling around her bruised and slashed face. He stumbles forward and kneels, lifting her face in his hands. He is greeted with a groan, her skin clammy and cold to the touch. A tired, bleary eye cracks open to look at him, brow furrowing as she struggles to focus.

“Corvo? Is that really you?” Her voice is weak and mumbling, but it is still the same one he remembers from his youth, if not weathered and roughened by time. It's been over thirty years since he heard her voice and yet the sound still brings back memories of throwing blood amber around in the streets, of playing hide and seek when the dust billowed and swam in the air, of daring each other to hit the Grand Guard with rocks. His hands shake as he moves around behind her, untying her bonds.

“Yes, it's me. _Spirits,_ Beatrici, what are you doing here? How did these people find you? Outsider's balls, I'm--”

He doesn't know what he is. Sorry? Was it _his_ fault these people found Beatrici and beat her just for being related to him? His heart burns in his chest and he fights at the bonds, pulling them apart. His sister slumps forward and Rinaldo catches her before she falls.

“Easy does it, ma’am,” Rinaldo says gently, holding her shoulders steady. Even in her beaten and forlorn state, Corvo can hear Beatrici mumble in protest to the honorific; he would laugh, if his throat wasn't already tight and pained from how tired she sounds.

“We're here to get you out of this place. You can talk more when you're rested and safe.”

There's a coughing sound, something that may have been a try at laughter, but Beatrici’s voice breaks. When she can't manage anything else, her eyes slide shut, body leaning into Rinaldo’s much larger frame. Corvo panics as she stills, but Rinaldo holds up a hand, adjusting her in his arms.

“She's still alive, just very weak. We need to get her medical attention immediately.”

Corvo swallows again, nodding, trying to keep his emotions in check. His heart pounds painfully and the Knife chitters and rings out, mirroring his mounting anxiety. From his pockets, he hands Rinaldo the audiograph, the papers, and the elixir and food he found earlier.

“Rinaldo, I need you to get my sister to Daud. Head out the back door and slip out.” He pulls off his hooded jacket as well, handing it to Rinaldo. “I'm going to clean up here, see if I can't get to the bottom of this here and now.”

There must have been a note in his tone Rinaldo didn't like, something sharp and dangerous, because the man's eyes go wide, his jaw set.

“Corvo, you don't need to do anything more, please don't--”

“Rinaldo, this is an order,” he snaps, his eyes and heart burning. “Get my sister to safety. Get back to Daud and Wyman undetected. I need this from you. Is that clear?”

Rinaldo lets the pity flash across his face for only a moment before tucking it away. He looks instead like he wants to chastise Corvo, to tell him to come home too, but a simple “Be careful, Lord Attano,” is all he says before he is gone in a whirl of ash. Corvo hears the door open and close at the top of the stairs and suddenly, he is alone in the boiler room.

His looks around the room where his sister sat moments before. Where she was tortured and beaten just for sharing his last name. The wind rushes in his ears as he clenches his fist, the Mark burning and prickling and begging to be used.

He grips the Knife and the Void fills him completely, the surge of power enough to make him feel light-headed. He looks upstairs; he sees Rinaldo disappear from his view just as new bodies appear, coming from the outer tunnels. They stop to chat, checking the building, and Corvo can feel his teeth grit, his jaw clenching painfully. They also walk out of his view, but it doesn't matter then; with a clench of his fist, Corvo is gone, stopping time and rushing for the door, hunting for the woman waiting upstairs.

He doesn't think as he enters the building proper, moving like a wraith through the rooms, listening for his target. He has no time to register anything but the adrenaline pumping in his veins, the Knife begging for blood in his hand. He is a ghost as he slips out onto the roof, blinking down the length of the long building.

As he nears the waterlock, voices float up to him over the sound of the distant waves. A woman and a man-- by the sounds of it, the scheduled shipment is finally coming in. Like a cat waiting to pounce, Corvo crouches low, hugging the roof, staying out of sight. He watches for warm bodies through the gaze of the Void, the song of whales and obsidian singing from the twin blades in his hand. He breathes, watches, listens, and waits.

“--yes, sir, thank you so much. It was a pleasure doing business with you.”

“Of course, Miss Amode. You've always been a friend to the crown, and Emily hopes your retirement is going well. Have you told the King of the synthetic whale oil yet?”

“Not yet, but I'm thinking soon. We have just enough here to make a difference. What a surprise this will be for him!”

“Of course ma’am, but do handle with care; this stuff is even more flammable than the real deal.”

“My men and I have all the protocols for handling in place. It won't be an issue at all.”

“Thank you so much ma'am. Now if you don't mind, I'll turn in for the night, it's far too dangerous to go out to sea right now.”

“Of course; there are facilities in the building if you need to use them. Thank you for your time, captain.”

The voices cut off into mumbles and mutterings as people disperse, unloading the cargo. The roar in Corvo's ears only grows as he scans each body within reach of his gaze. The captain is nearby, and a new shift of guards. There are also a few Overseers as well, but still, he can't find the person he's looking for. He snarls, pushing the gaze out further, the Knife straining to keep up with the amount of Void energy he’s using.

 _There_. Moving towards the back, past his position, outside the building. A few guards are with her, but he's not worried; he can take them out easily. Then he'll go after her, slide the blade on her throat, make her pay for using him, for the pain she caused his sister just for--

The heavy sound hits him like a kick to the chest and he stumbles on his pounce, heart lurching painfully.

For a terrifying moment, he can't breathe, can't think, can't _see--_ he hears voices but can't make out what they are saying. Someone is yelling, shouting, but not at him. In his hand, the Knife screams and screeches; he grips it tight, urging it to hold together as it literally _cracks_ in his palm. He looks towards the sound of yelling and feels his entire stomach plummet into the distant seawater.

The Overseers had spotted Rinaldo.

Corvo sees him, clinging to the cliffside wall, his sister still safely with him. The Overseers are searching for him, using their music boxes to cripple him, but Rinaldo had managed to evade them so far. But that won't last forever; if the music keeps going, if Rinaldo stumbles and falls or is unable to catch Beatrici if he let go of her from the strain...

Corvo moves without thinking. Drawing the Void with all his strength, he stops time, blinking over to the music-wielding Overseer. He shoves the blade into his neck and the metal of the Knife sings triumphant, glorious in its victory over its greatest mortal adversary.

Time resumes. The blood of the Overseer sprays like a fountain from where the Knife protrudes from his neck. Rinaldo, clinging to the cliffside, locks eyes with Corvo.

 _Go_ , is all that Corvo's burning eyes tell him.

Rinaldo gives him one last nod, a silent _thank you_ before disappearing completely back into the rainy night.

Around Corvo, the world erupts.

Sound bounces off the cavern walls, voices yelling and and fingers pointing as the bloodied body of the Overseer falls to the floor, twitching and gurgling. In the blink of an eye, Corvo is on the next Overseer, fist burning like liquid fire as he shoves the twin blades deep into the man's chest.

Two more guards appear and Corvo simply pulls up the wind and blasts it at them, leaving them choking and gasping. They fall a distance away and he flips the Knife in his hand, moving to finish them off.

His second step finds him falling painfully to his knees. The world blurs as pressure wracks his body, tearing his muscles and bones and insides apart.

From somewhere behind him, the ancient music plays. It pulses over him in waves, rattling his teeth, pressing in on his head and chest. He calls desperately for the Void but it flees from him as his Mark flares out and dies. In his right hand, the Knife screams, the edges of it blurring as it fractures into shards of the Void. He grits his chattering teeth and sets the Knife to his side, trying his best to get up and look around.

Behind him stands a brown haired woman, the music box of the fallen Overseer in her arms, playing it with a resolute look on her face. Another wave of notes hits him and his mind shakes, body all but breaking into pieces.

“Interesting,” he hears her say, the same voice from the audiograph. “To think a cursed thing such as yourself can be laid low by simple music. You certainly aren't as scary now compared to in my nightmares, Corvo Attano.”

She nears him, the music strengthening with each step. He heaves, trying to remain conscious as another wave hits him, tearing him from the inside out.

“Then again, you also aren't wearing that monstrous mask.”

“Hah--” he chokes out through gritted teeth. _“You're_ the monster, torturing my sister...threatening the crown…using me for your dirty work...” he can feel his body collapsing, the sweat breaking out as he fights the rising nausea. “I found the audiograph. I know all your secrets now.”

Amode simply tilts her head.

“Oh, do you, _Spymaster?_ Well, we shall see. The final act is yet to begin, and I still need you to be there to see the fireworks.”

She blasts him with music -- with no powers and no weapon, he crumples, gasping for air. His world blacks out to the feeling of rough hands lifting him and dragging him along, Amode’s soft small laugh ringing cheerily through the alcove.

“Get ready, boys! Looks like Fugue is coming early this year!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter probably got about four different rewrites before I was finally happy with it. THERE WAS A LOT OF SENSITIVE STUFF TO COVER HERE. So honestly, I'm both scared and and happy to see this chapter finally posted! It only gets faster and more ramped up from here from here. :D


	15. Ready for What Comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beatrici wakes up. Daud makes a decision.

“Do you think Corvo will be alright?” Wyman asked Daud, hours ago now. Their green eyes had been full of worry as they watched Daud come back to where they stood in the shooting range, poring over their prototype notes.

Daud had offered a tired smile then, had tried to find the appropriate words.

“I have faith enough in his abilities, Wyman,” he said to them, but something must have shown because Wyman threw a worried eye over Daud's features. He had sighed, placing a hand on the young noble’s shoulder, offering a reassuring squeeze.

“I know Corvo well enough to know that he's dealt with worse than a simple search and capture mission,” he said, with more conviction. “I would never, _ever_ send someone -- one of my men or otherwise -- knowingly to their death. Whatever happens, Corvo can handle it.”

Now, hours into the early morning, the rain has yet to let up and Corvo and Rinaldo have yet to reappear. Daud stands at his balcony door, smoking, too wired to sleep. Though it's fruitless through the rain, he still scans the rooftops for movement, looking for the telltale sign of one of his men's signature transversals. No matter how hard his eyes strain, no ash or smoke dissipates, no subtle sound of the wind catches his ear.

He chews at his cigarette, taking a long inhale before blowing the smoke out, hard and heavy.

“It's not like Rinaldo to be out this long,” Thomas says from the side table, hands folded in his lap but his leg twitchy and restless. “Do you think something happened? Do you think Corvo--”

“Don't.”

Thomas snaps his mouth shut, sighing out through his nose. Daud looks over to see the young man running fingers through his loose blonde strands.

“You don't know what he'll do, Daud. But we know what he's capable of, we know he doesn't like us--”

“He likes Rinaldo,” Daud supplies, the irritation evident in his short reply. “He was sent with Rinaldo because if he was going to cooperate with any of you, it was him.”

“I don't like this,” Thomas says. Daud sets his jaw; his second isn't usually this argumentative. “I don't trust this, I don't trust _him,_ I don't approve of you both just being -- _fine_ working together after -- _fuck,_ after _everything,_ Daud!”

“I know what I'm doing,” Daud says evenly. “And I know Corvo enough to not only stop every attempt he's put against my life, but to know when he actually _means_ it. If he is willing to help, we have to believe him.”

Thomas looks away, crossing his arms and legs, his frown solid and his frame closed off. Daud looks at him long and hard, weighing his emotions, before turning back to the night’s rain. He pulls another drag from his cigarette, wishing the drug inside the rolled leaves would finally do something to quell his frayed nerves.

 _It takes a good thirty minutes to get to the cliffs on a clear day,_ he tells himself. So at least an hour spent just traveling. Longer if they stopped for a supply check, longer still if they stopped for food or to avoid detection. Add on the time it may take to sweep the area, find the target, and leave without alerting anyone... That's another few hours. So maybe four, five hours. Tops.

He taps at his cigarette, jaw worrying. It has been six hours since they left. The sun would be rising soon, the weather breaking with it. Were they waiting out the storm? Was there a complication? He tosses the cigarette and toys with the idea of grabbing another from his inside pocket.

“You know we can all tell, right?”

Daud turns back to Thomas, raising an eyebrow. Thomas sounds as tired as he looks, and Daud wonders if he's determined to stay awake until Rinaldo returns. His head is resting in his gloved hand, watching Daud under heavily-lidded eyes.

“Tell what.”

“That you're starting to _obsess_ over him again.”

Daud scoffs, folding his arms as he looks out into the rain.

“Don't you think that's a little over the line, Thomas?”

“You stopped caring about us crossing lines a long time ago and you know it. We're like family; we get away with a lot these days and we see more than we say we do.”

Daud growls, his teeth baring. “Go to bed, Thomas. Between last night and now, you clearly haven't gotten enough sleep.”

“Maybe because someone needs to be up and worrying about you enough to stop you from doing anything stupid?”

“And just what do you think I'm doing that's so stupid, Thomas?” He bristles, the anger boiling as his defenses rise. “What are you getting at?”

“Look, just.” He breathes out, long and low, as he brushes the hair out of his face, tying the long strands back into a tail. “I was there, for the Empress, for Billie, for the witches… for _everything._ And I just don't want to lose you over something like a renewed obsession over Corvo and his entanglements. Okay? Promise me that. I can't watch you almost die because of him again.”

Daud blinks. He shakes his head and pushes up from the door frame, his steps even as he walks over to Thomas. Thomas grimaces, fingers clutching his hair as Daud meets his eye. A gloved hand lands on his shoulder heavily, forcing Thomas to face him.

“Look. Corvo is still mad at me, and I don't blame him for it. And you have every right not to trust him for what he's done in the past.”

“Daud…”

“But I promise you don't have to worry. It's different this time. He needs my help with this Knife, and honestly it's too dangerous to ignore. I'll see it gone -- personally, if I have to.”

_“Daud--”_

Daud frowns. “I don't need that sort of tone from you right now Thomas, I'm trying to be honest with you here.”

“Sir!”

Daud starts; _that_ exclamation didn't come from Thomas at all, but a different voice entirely. He feels the soft thud of boots on flooring and he turns, the telltale wind from a recent transversal rushing past him. Standing there in the door frame, sopping wet and carrying a slumped hooded figure, is--

“Rinaldo! Is that-- _Corvo?”_

Thomas and Daud rush over as Rinaldo shakes the water off his own hood, looking none the worse for wear. Corvo, though, has seen better days. Daud puts a gentle hand on his shoulder and is greeted with a groan.

Daud stiffens. That sound was decidedly female and most certainly _not_ Corvo.

“Rinaldo, who is--”

He lifts the hood to see a familiar nose and curtain of dark hair, but on an unfamiliar female face. One that'd been beaten to the Void and back, by the looks of it.

“Easy, sir. She's not in the best shape,” Rinaldo says, voice shaky from exertion. Daud puts an arm around her slim body and carries her over to the bed, gently laying her down. He pulls his glove off and checks her vitals; the soft flutter of a heartbeat and easy breathing greet his ministrations.

Once he’s sure the woman is safe, he turns to Rinaldo, checking him over.

“What happened? Who is she? Where is Corvo?”

Rinaldo is tired, his entire form slumped, but he gives a brief recounting of what happened all the same.

“The woman is Corvo's sister, Beatrici,” he starts. “She was captured to try and interrogate information out of her on Corvo. When Corvo found her, he asked me to take her and leave. He--”

Daud's throat squeezes unpleasantly as Rinaldo falters. Next to him, Daud can feel Thomas tense up, alertness cutting through his tired fog like a knife.

_“Where is Corvo, Rinaldo.”_

“He's still there. I think he originally wanted to take out the target we were looking for, but instead he stopped us from being caught as we slipped away. Daud, you need to know-- they have Overseers, music boxes…” he swallows. “I'm not sure Corvo made it out.”

Daud curses, turning on his heel to pace away and then back again.

“He got himself captured?” Thomas starts, nervously. “So that you could escape?’

Rinaldo looks at him tiredly and nods. “It seems that way. I'm sure it was also for his sister but-- my safety and her safety were top priority. He took a fall for us, Daud.”

“Are you going to go look for him?” Thomas asks, watching Daud pace. Daud shakes his head, grinding his teeth.

“No. It's too risky. They want us to come and look for him; if we don't they'll just bring him to us. They may want him dead, but there's no fun in just killing him outright.”

“Corvo also wanted you to have this,” Rinaldo said, handing over an audiograph and a handful of notes and letters. Daud grabs them and flips through the pages, eyes skimming the words silently. Finally, he nods, looking back to the tired form of his tallest bodyguard.

“I want you to get some rest, Rinaldo. You did well; make sure you take some elixir before you go to sleep, for good measure. I'll take it from here.”

Rinaldo nods, the breath leaving him as he slouches on his knees. He shakes his head, any residual water dripping off his stiff strands. “Thank you, sir.”

In a swirl of smoke and a flutter of Void, Rinaldo is gone. Daud breathes out, turning now to his second. Thomas is there, tired eyes bright, ever as always to move wherever Daud asks him to go. Daud hands him the papers.

“Some of these documents are troubling. We will want Wyman to look over them in the morning. There seems to be shipments of precious resources coming in through the alcoves that aren't cleared by their company.”

Thomas's brow furrows, reading over everything. “This is only whale oil from Dunwall. I don't understand why this needs special attention or to be kept hidden from Wyman.”

“I'm not sure yet either; there's something we're missing.” He turns away to clench his fist, focusing the Void in his mind, calling to the last of his current bonded. After a few seconds, Misha appears, disgruntled and tired but looking up at Daud expectantly.

“Daud. You rang at this lovely hour?”

“Cut the sarcasm for once, Misha. I need your help; we have a rescued captive and I need you to give her a once-over before I can call the physician in here come morning.”

Misha's eyebrows raise, the tiredness fleeing him. Daud motions to the bed; Misha follows his gaze and his eyes go wide. He hurries over, pushing the hood back.

“Who is this?”

“Corvo's sister, Beatrici.”

Misha jumps. “Corvo's _sister?”_

“I'm not sure where she came from either. But she may need medical attention. Can you see to her, just to make sure there's nothing pressing going on?”

“I wish you had told me to also bring my bag,” he grumbles. But he looks over her all the same, taking a rough temperature and checking all important vitals. As he works, she groans, pulling away from him.

Misha sighs. “She's suffered blunt force trauma to the face and limbs, some fairly recently, but other than that, she just needs rest.”

Daud nods. Misha scurries off to the bathroom and comes back with Daud's personal first aid kit, applying some basic antiseptic and bandages. “I have enough medical know-how to look at her superficial wounds, but you'll want the physician in here first thing in the morning,” he tells Daud, still working.

“Understood. Thank you, Misha.”

“If I can ask, sir, where is Corvo himself?”

Daud doesn't respond. Misha turns to the silence, an eyebrow raised worriedly.

“Sir?”

“We don't know yet, but we have reason to believe he was captured by the enemy.”

“The Regenters have him?”

“Yes; they have music boxes, according to Rinaldo, so I want all of you on high alert if we have to deal with them. I don't need you falling to an Overseer in the future.”

“Understood, sir.”

He looks between both Thomas and Misha now, shoulders slumping out of their usual straight line.

“Thank you, both. Get some rest; I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be a long day.”

Thomas nods, hesitating toward Daud before thinking better of it and transversing off in the blink of an eye. Misha isn't long to follow; he cleans up the bandages and nods to Daud before also returning to his quarters.

Once they are gone, Daud breathes out, pulling up a chair next to the bed. He slumps down into it, looking over the sleeping form of Beatrici. He wipes a hand over his tired eyes, his Mark burning and itching underneath the glove.

“What the hell did you get yourself into this time, Corvo?”

\------

Beatrici doesn't wake until the afternoon. By the time that she does, Wyman and their physician are there, checking her over. She stirs and groans, her eyes going wide when she realizes she has no idea where she is.

“What-- where--” she shoots up, disoriented. The physician pushes her back down with a gentle hand.

“Take it easy, dear, you're safe,” the Morleyan woman murmurs, voice soft and easy despite her stout and solid form. She grips at Beatrici’s hand while the woman hyperventilates, face darting around the room.

“Where is Corvo? He found me, I need to--”

“Your brother isn't here,” Daud supplies, and he can see the flicker of sadness over Wyman's face as they look back towards Beatrici. “But he made sure you were extracted safely. You're in good hands now.”

Beatrici looks around the room, breath evening out as her dark, burning eyes scan each of their faces. Now that she's awake, the familial resemblance to Corvo can't be denied; they share the same long black hair, the same brown, deep-set eyes. While not as tall as Corvo, her frame is still long and light. She doesn’t pack near as much muscle, however, and her skin is far more weathered than Corvo's, covered by a simple pair of slacks with a shirt and vest. Corvo's hood rests on the chair, drying from last night’s rain.

“Who are you?” She asks. “Where am I?”

Wyman offers a soft smile. “I'm Wyman Rodagh, and my father and I run the Rodagh Trading Company here. This is my bodyguard, Flint. He and his men have been working with Corvo to uncover a threat to Morley and the Empress.”

Her eyes go wide. “Wait, so that means that what they said about Corvo is true? That he's the father of an Empress?”

Daud blinks. “How long has it been since you talked to your brother?”

She thinks briefly while the physician checks her pulse and blood pressure. “It's been over thirty years since I last saw him. I left home as soon as I was able. Never really looked back; nothing to see in that section of Karnaca anyway. Why?”

Daud reels. No wonder he had never known the existence of Corvo's sibling, had never heard mention of them from Corvo himself.

“The why isn't important -- and I'd rather _Corvo_ fill you in on his life story -- but just know he was Royal Protector to the previous empress before she was assassinated.”

“Some of them said Corvo did that too,” Beatrici asks, eyes hard. “Is that also true?”

Daud’s jaw works, but he manages to keep his face straight even as the words _“YOU KILLED HER_ ” flash through his mind.

“No, Corvo never harmed the late Empress. It was a hired hit against her by the Lord Regent, Hiram Burrows. It is true that Corvo killed him in retaliation and to help Emily regain the throne, however.”

Much to Daud's surprise, Beatrici just shakes her head and looks away, sighing through her nose. “Damnit, Corvo,” she mutters out, under her breath. “He was always one for revenge. He never makes something happen, but if wronged, he always had to be the one to finish it. Stubborn as always.”

“I see you're used to his unique brand of justice,” Daud supplies. She nods, eyes locking with his.

“Where is he now?”

Wyman glances at Daud, eyes barely hiding their uncertainty. Daud steadies himself.

“He got captured by the Regenters while making sure you were extracted safely.”

“He tried to kill them, didn't he?”

“According to what Rinaldo -- the man who brought you back -- said, yes. He tried to kill them.”

Beatrici shakes her head, her lips going thin. She coughs out a laugh and puts a hand to her face, covering it.

“Outsider's balls, Corvo. Thirty years and you're still the same stubborn child.”

Daud stiffens before sitting down on the other side of the bed. “Beatrici,” he says sharply, and she lifts her head to look at him. “There is a conspiracy occurring here in Morley, started by the group that captured you and beat you for information on Corvo. If we are to stop them and get Corvo back safely, we need to know what's going on.”

“I…” she shakes her head, as if trying to clear it. “I don't really know myself. That woman -- Amode, I believe -- she is determined to get back at whatever it is Corvo did during the plague. I think she's just working with the Regenters because she doesn't care what happens, as long as Corvo suffers for it.”

“Did she say why she was so mad at Corvo, specifically?” Wyman asks, voice tinged with worry. Beatrici shakes her head.

“He killed people, brutally. If I know him, he probably saw it as a sort of justified retaliation. I think she's just scared of him, personally. If he did even half of the things she said he did, then I don't really blame her.”

“Corvo also found documents detailing shipments to the crown, whale oil from Dunwall. Did you hear anything about that?” he hands the documents to her, and she reads through them carefully. Her eyes go wide but she remains silent, gaping at the words.

“Beatrici,” Wyman says gently “My company knows all the shipments that come through the docks, especially the private shipments to the king and queen. We never signed off on these shipments, and I need to know why.”

“That's because these shipments aren't going to the king and queen,” she says, her voice shaking. “And this isn't a whale oil shipment except on paper.”

Daud grips at the bed. “What?”

Beatrici shakes her head, pushing her long hair behind an ear. Her eyes shine and burn even as her voice breaks. “I-I'm not sure on the details but they said something about fake whale oil, and a bomb at the castle--”

Wyman’s pale face loses all color and they look to Daud desperately. Daud is already on his feet, eyes hard, striding past all of them and over to the door. Outside, Thomas stands guard, but he immediately turns to Daud as he leaves the room.

“Did you catch that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Get Misha and Rinaldo. We'll need everyone.”

“Of course,” Thomas says, asking nothing else before disappearing down the hall.

“Flint.” Daud turns back into the room, where Wyman is also on their feet, looking expectantly at Daud. “Flint, what do you need me to do?”

“I need you to stay with me until I can get you somewhere safe,” he says, voice hard as stone. Wyman nods, and makes for the door swiftly, light as a cat. Daud looks back to the stricken physician, as well as Corvo's sister, lying on the bed.

“Can you keep an eye on her until we get back?” Daud growls to the woman. She nods, watching them nervously.

“Wait--” Beatrici says, meeting Daud's gaze. It pangs something deep within him to think of how much her eyes and Corvo's burn the same way. “You'll bring my brother back safely, right?”

“As safely as I'm able.”

“Good,” she affirms bitterly. “Because I still need to beat some sense into him.”

Daud snorts, grinning despite himself. He leaves the room and turns to Wyman, placing a steadying hand on their shoulder.

“Is that fancy vest of yours ready for me?”

Wyman nods, green eyes flashing in the light.

“Alright, let's grab that before we go. I have a feeling this is going to be a long day.”

\------

A trademark of Morley that the other Isles lack is the prevalence of castles, both still in use and abandoned. Most of those that are now empty dot the rolling countryside, marking old important villages or the stately manors of family names now long since forgotten. Even when crumbling and dilapidated, they are impressive monuments, the old stone standing tall in spite of the weather and wind. Some are skeletons, ghosts of a bygone time, haunted by graves and whispers on the wind-- others are sacred places that travelers still visit and pay tribute to.

The castle of Wynnedown, however, is a well-kept building, erected high above the capital city and situated safely on the cliffs. Though it was a formidable fortress in the days before the Empire, now it exists more as an aesthetic landmark, as beautiful and regal as it is intimidating. Like the Rodagh estate, the castle has expanded, adding to its history and grandeur, transforming itself into a living museum of Morleyan history. For those touring from the other Isles, it is a destination that begs to be seen, with the king and queen more than happy to oblige visitors.

Like the castle they reside in, the King and Queen of Morley-- Sampson and Hayley Boru-- hold little political power, and instead are more like figureheads who approve decisions and have a direct line to the Empress in Dunwall. In Morley's days before the Empire, the king and queen carried a strict monarchy, one that they ruled from the top of the cliffs, overlooking their domain.

Now, with the king and queen holding less authoritative power, the Rodagh family has seen a rise in position through commanding commerce in the area. This has also led to Rodagh and Boru working closely together and negotiating matters of coin and trade, and the two families know each other well.

So it comes as a surprise to Wyman and registers alarm in Daud when they meet resistance at the inner castle gate.

“We aren't taking any visitors today,” the one guard says, scowling curiously at them as they exit the carriage. “The king and queen specifically requested as such.”

“They know me personally,” Wyman says, trying to hide the dismay in their voice. “My father and I are old friends and I have dire news for them.”

“And what could that dire news possibly be?”

Daud bristles with impatience and dread as the guards stand and stall them. He clenches his fist and watches the walls, waiting.

“There was a problem with the last whale oil shipment,” Wyman says hurriedly, desperately. “It wasn't refined properly and I hear it's not up to our usual quality or recommendation.” The guards look on impassively and Wyman's gaze flicks momentarily to Daud, who gives them the faintest of nods.

“It can't wait until tomorrow?” The one guard says. Wyman rolls their eyes dramatically.

“With the end of the year less than _thirty days away?_ This is a matter of utmost importance regarding the coin of our country, and I need to close my books within the month!”

The guards exchange a glance. Daud counts to ten in his head.

“Sorry but—”

Whatever the guards were sorry for, they never have a chance to say. From above them drops Rinaldo and Misha, who quickly choke them out. Wyman sucks in a breath as Daud walks over to the guards, checking their pulses and faces.

“These aren't the usual patrol,” Daud mutters out. “I figured as much when they didn't recognize you, Wyman.” He rummages their things, pulling out a note and keys. The note is a small thing, written in a smooth handwriting.

_Turn away visitors. Stall the Rodagh family for as long as possible._

“This group has already anticipated our arrival. We're going to need another way in because we'll only be experiencing more resistance from here and time is of the essence.”

Wyman watches expectantly as Daud's men drag the bodies into the bushes lining the outer wall. Daud paces, checking the keyring in his hand, and tries the gate. After the third attempt, the lock gives, the door opening with a satisfying click. He peers through the keyhole, searching for the guards further in, weighing his options. Most of the grounds look deserted outside of a few guard patrols hovering near the usual doors and passageways. A quick sweep, however, lets him know that his favorite haunts are still unguarded and unwatched.

He pulls back, looking for his men. Rinaldo and Misha are standing there, waiting for his next direction.

“Do you have any word on how Thomas is doing?” He asks them each in turn.

“He's still working his way inside to assess the damage and the problem we have set before us,” Misha supplies. “I can show you where he entered, if you'd like.”

“That won't be necessary,” he says. “I know all of the ins and outs of the castle by now. I'm sure I can find a way to slip in on my own.”

“Slip in?” Wyman asks. “Flint, I need to get in there, I need to let the king know what's going on.”

“Wyman,” Daud turns to them now, tone softening off of the hard command he gives his men. “Thomas is currently already in the castle, getting the royal family to safety. I fear the castle may already be compromised; if it is, then I need to go in and defuse the situation. I can't do that if your life's in danger.”

“What do you need me to do?”

“Wait here with Rinaldo and Misha. They can get you out of here if they need to. Once I'm inside, I'll send Thomas back with news.”

“And what about you?”

Daud’s jaw tightens and he's aware of how Misha and Rinaldo both shift uncomfortably. Wyman, as observant as ever, picks up on the movement. They glare at Daud, shaking their head.

“Oh no, I'm not letting you run off to get hurt-- if that's what you think this is--”

“This is part of my job, Wyman. Nobody can do this better than me.”

“You can't do it at all if you're _dead,_ Flint!”

“And I can't do this unless I know you're safe. _Please,_ Wyman. Trust me on this.”

Wyman worries their lower lip, looking away as they nod, finally letting Daud go to do his job. His jaw tightens and he nods to his men, who nod back.

With that, he slips through the gate and enters the castle grounds proper.

The grounds are quiet: the lack of maids, landscapers, and muttering tourists means nothing but the crashing waves on the cliffs far below fill the silence. Tapping the Void, Daud lets his vision and senses extend, listening and looking for any guards in the area. Not much registers except the rustle of the wind through leaves and a few patrols winding through the front garden passageways. Near the far end of the yard is the main entrance, the large oak doors framed by mighty stone monuments. At least three guards stand at attention there, keeping their eyes on the perimeter, waiting to stop anyone who might be approaching.

If this was a mission like Brigmore, Daud would have found the lack of more outside resistance disconcerting. However, even if Wyman was expected, this group was clearly not ready for everything Daud can supernaturally accomplish.

Daud breathes in, breathes out, centering himself.

It’s time to go to work.

He veers to the left and hugs the wall before transversing up the scaffolding. From there, he has a better view of the castle at large, as well as a view of the outer grounds and the cliffside. Out at sea a storm hangs, dark and threatening, further down the coast. The winds it whips up fills his ears and hits him with the scent of cold salt, and the sound of distant thunder peals. Still he climbs, spending no time to admire the scenery as he looks for a decent opening to infiltrate.

After a final few rooftop transversals, Daud spots the opportunity he's looking for: the stained glass windows that decorate the Royal Archives. Despite having complete access to this area through the courtesy of being Wyman's bodyguard, there were plenty of long nights Daud spent here, reading on whatever he could without being bothered. The stained glass windows are the perfect avenue in and out: because of their central location, they are never guarded and always propped open at an angle to allow heat to escape in the summertime.

He slips in through an open window now, sliding in expertly and dropping behind a bookshelf.

As soon as his boots hit the ground, he can feel his Mark prickle and itch, the hair on his neck rising. Experimentally, he clenches his fist, calling the Void to his hand--but the connection is weak, drained out of him. He curses under his breath; somewhere nearby, perhaps outside the door or below him, the ancient music is reverberating out, soiling his Void connection.

If there's music's playing, it can only mean one thing: someone who is connected to the Void is currently having a very, _very_ bad time.

Daud flattens against the shelves, flitting between the rows like a shadow. As he suspected, there are no guards or Overseers amongst the silent books, but as he nears the door the music’s power exponentially grows. His teeth and bones rattle with every step, and whatever miniscule power he still had flees from him entirely, leaving him feeling raw and exposed. Voices filter through, just outside the door, and Daud creeps slowly closer, listening as best he can against the reverberation of the music.

“So, they found him snooping around downstairs, they said?” An Overseer speaks casually to  the other, unaffected by the music entirely.

“Seems like it. He was trying to look into the wiring in the cellars, but got caught when someone said they saw him ‘disappear.’ The music took care of that nonsense right away.”

“Disappear? Like vanish? What kind of black magic is that?”

Daud's stomach drops. _Thomas._ They were talking about Thomas.

“Unsure, but they did find some bone charms in his jacket. All the classic signs of an Outsider worshipper.”

“Well, they say that magic is stronger and more prevalent in Morley. Maybe things will change with the Regenters and we can finally get a true foothold here.”

Daud peers out from his hiding spot, pulling a stun mine from his satchel. He sees them: two Overseers, their backs turned to him. He is surprised when he doesn't see either of them wearing a music box; instead the ancient song was playing next to them through an automated phonograph, the sounds rippling through the hallways. It reminds him of the alarms in Dunwall, but of a more intricate and complicated design, refitted for Overseer use. Daud frowns, eying the machination carefully and cautiously.

Perhaps they had prepared for the possibility of Outsider magic after all.

Daud takes a step out, moving to slowly open the double-wide glass doors to the Archives and surreptitiously plant his stun mine.

“There was something else about the guy though-- get this. He was wearing _Rodagh_ colors. We put him under the music, just like Corvo.”

Daud freezes, ears ringing.

“That family, connected to the occult? I never would have guessed.”

“Maybe that's how _Lady Annwyn_ ended up as _Noble Wyman--”_

A crossbow bolt loosens; the Overseer gasps and cries out, falling to the floor as his leg crumples underneath him. His partner yelps, rushing over as the leg wound weeps freely, staining the floor and darkening his pants.

“What the--”

Another bolt flies through the air, hitting the other Overseer in a spray of electricity. The man jerks and chokes, the shock bolt doing its job of incapacitating him completely. His wounded partner yells loudly, trying to call for help.

A thick glove wraps around his throat and his words choke and die. Daud pulls the man to his face, eyes glaring and furious, before shoving him back down and into the intricate music machine. The mechination sputters and shakes, and for a brief moment Daud can feel the hot burn of the Void’s energy before it's gone again as the music kicks back to life.

He slams the man into the machine once more, listening to him struggle and sputter in pain.

“Please--” he hears weakly; the Overseer was actually trying to _talk_ to him. “Please stop--”

“Never. Say _that_ name. _Ever again.”_ He slams the Overseer into the player once more, causing it to spark and burst from the force of impact. The man cries out, both from the pain in his back and the long crossbow bolt skewering his leg.

“Oh spirits, you're _him_ aren't you,” the Overseer weeps the words, as choked off as he is against the force of Daud's unrelenting fingers. “The bodyguard, Flint.”

Daud sneers, a nasty smile stretching his scars.

“Oh, I'm more than just Castor Flint. I'm the _Knife of Dunwall,_ and I'm your worst Void-damned nightmare.”

\------

Daud spares no sympathy for the Overseers infesting the Boru castle.

He leaves them alive, at the very least. He credits himself for that, because they are all much easier to kill than to leave lingering. Despite the bile in his throat and his aching limbs from being around the all-too-prevalent ancient music, he manages to _only_ incapacitate the Overseers. He leaves a mark on all of them: they suffer with slashed ankles and crushed pressure points and choking lungs, faces surely covered in tears and blood from broken noses.

Not that he could tell. He just knows his fist hits their masks hard enough to crack.

He prays to the Void that their teeth shatter and their noses grow crooked and their severed tendons never heal right, leaving them crippled. He wants them to live with what pain he gives them; death is just too much of a blessing upon their blackened souls.

Using Wyman’s old, forgotten name is just a spark on the kindling-- the fire of hatred Daud holds for the Overseers runs deep and never goes out. He knows the terrible things they do in the name of the Abbey, the abuse they push onto those who are young and unsuspecting. He's seen their dogs ordered to maul beggars on the streets, laughing all the while. He's watched his own men tortured by their hands. Spirits, he's saved at least two of his Whalers from their child abduction, trading them one mask for another.

Both of them thanked him personally, years after, when they were old enough to understand what could have happened, the kind of bullet they dodged.

No, Daud has no love lost for the Overseers or their precious Abbey. He pisses on their Seven Strictures. He’d burn them all to the ground if he could.

 _Good riddance_.

He tosses another unconscious and weeping body into a closet, joining a few others in an unceremonious pile. He grimaces, closing the door before finally turning to the last alarm device, blasting out the ancient notes. The music shakes him to the core, rattling his teeth and blurring his senses, but he rarely shows how affected he is anymore. He's had years of practice, fighting this music and steeling himself against it. He's learned how to tell when the music is of particularly deadly quality, or when the player is weak and not of a decent make.

These alarms are of the latter: they are made to be played without needing the hand of an Overseer to guide the notes, meaning they fall flat and monotone. Music boxes are deadly when wielded by an experienced hand; these are cheap imitations, used to suppress power and provide magic users a mild inconvenience. The two acoustic horns do allow for a greater range of effect, however, and it can still be difficult for those not used to fighting the effects to deal with the power of the notes.

Daud, however, is not one of those people.

He flips the switch and finally, he feels relief wash over him. He breathes deep, collecting himself and his shaking limbs, trying not to pass out from the exertion of fighting the ancient music.

He needs to focus. He needs to find Thomas. He needs to get the king and queen out of here. He needs to diffuse a hidden bomb. He needs to locate Corvo.

He needs to smoke a damn cigarette.

Unfortunately, that last one is going to have to be postponed the longest.

He walks away from the now-inert ancient phonograph, pulling an elixir out of his bag and downing in in a single gulp. It helps; the strength returns to his limbs immediately and he reaches for the Void, grasping it in his waiting hand. He throws out his gaze, the colors warping around him as he searches for any other upright bodies. He finds none: with the path unobscured, he jumps to the elevator shaft, taking it down to the bottom levels of the castle.

Below the ageless stone and well-kept hallways of the main castle, the cellars wind down underground, smelling of cool, wet earth and far-off seawater. Many of the tunnels bore deep into the cliffside, hiding timeless treasures behind secret doors and special locks. Without a proper guide, the catacombs can kill a man. Some get lost forever in the twisting mazes, finally escaping only to find the beckoning light is leading to the doom of a plummet into cold and rocky water. The cliffside is, to that effect, part of the castle itself-- the root system upon which the stone tree stands firm.

It is here in these winding tunnels, among the foundation and barrels of wine, that Daud finds his second-in-command.

“Thomas,” he breathes out as he transverses over, his body materializing out of smoke and ash. “Spirits, are you alright?”

Thomas is dazed from where he is tied, the music box that keeps him in place threatening from the corner. Daud had already busted it moments before, slicing the pieces with his sword, leaving it irreparable. Daud notes the bruise on Thomas’ cheek, his disheveled clothing, his missing coat and satchel. Daud unties him quickly, nervously looking for Thomas’ weapons and ammunition.

“Daud,” he rasps out tiredly. “My apologies sir, I let the music get me.”

“Don't be sorry; I saw what they had upstairs. Those huge phonograph versions of the music boxes should all be out of commission now.”

Thomas faints for a moment, falling forward. Daud curses, quickly catching him before he hits the ground. Thomas grunts, shaking his head, pushing himself up on his own two feet.

“Concussion,” Daud mutters. “Definitely don't think the music did _that_ to you.”

“It's fine, I'm fine,” Thomas says, taking a breath. “This still isn't anywhere near as bad as when they stormed the Flooded District. Give me a few minutes; I'll be good.”

Daud frowns, but shoves an elixir in his hand all the same. Thomas takes it with a grimace, screwing off the top and taking a swig.

“Where are your things?”

Thomas takes another swallow and shakes his head, his face twisting at the unpleasant flavor of the medication.

“I'm not sure. They grabbed it off of me when I couldn't stop them. I think they were interested in the bone charms I had.”

“Or in the fact that you're associated with Wyman.”

Thomas flinches. “You don't think that they would--”

“I don't _have_ to think about what they might do, I just have to assume the worst. Before you were captured, what did you find?”

Daud watches as Thomas points down multiple paths.

“Corvo is _there_. I saw him; he's in a similar state as I am, I think; there's a woman lording over him with a music box, at least. Probably Amode.”

Daud nods his affirmation and Thomas continues, pointing in the opposite direction.

“There is a lot of wiring down that way; I think they are using the synthetic whale oil as a sort of bomb on the far side of the castle.”

“The half near the cliffs.”

“Yes, sir."

“Have you located the king or queen?”

“I think they said they were being held in the throne room.”

“Get them out of there, by whatever means necessary. The Overseers above have been eliminated and there's a carriage outside the inner gate waiting for you. Rendezvous with Wyman and the others and get yourselves someplace safe.”

“And you?”

“I need to figure out how to get Attano out of here. After that, I'll salvage what I can.”

_“Daud…”_

It's a exasperated, if not desperate word. Thomas’ eyes never leave Daud, even when Daud can't hold his gaze any longer.

“Listen. If anything happens--”

“Don't talk like that, Daud. Don't do something you'll regret, _please.”_

“--Just take care of the kid.”

Thomas sighs. It's a defeated, deflating thing. It's not the first time Daud has asked something like this of his second; after Billie betrayed them and before Corvo came to pass his dark judgement, Daud had approached Thomas with a similar plea. _You're all still good kids; if anything happens take care of them for me._

Even as he nods, Daud can tell it hurts Thomas in all the same ways.

“Of course, sir. You know--”

Voices drift up from one of the tunnels and they both stiffen. Daud squeezes Thomas’ arm and Thomas nods, swallowing hard, before making himself scarce. He transverses away in a cloud of smoke as Daud pulls the Void over his eyes, staying to the shadows while he looks for the owners of those muffled words. When the voices don't draw near, he goes to them, pulled by an invisible tether.

“--and honestly, I just expected more of you, Corvo.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

The dry response to the feminine voice is almost enough to make Daud snort; Corvo sounds, if anything, _bored._ He transverses closer and as he does so, four bodies swim into view: two Overseers, Amode, and Corvo, tied to the chair. As he rounds the dark tunnel, he keeps himself low, working his way through the shadows, transversing from one hiding place to the next.

He’s nestling himself amongst the shadows of the giant barrels of ale when he hears it: a very distinct singing, a broken cry in the darkness. Daud's head jerks painfully and against his will-- his lip curls as he sees the Knife through the Void. It's lying, discarded and useless, in an adjacent room. As he watches, the edges of the weapon blur, warped by the music that is no doubt suppressing its power.

His eyes flick back to Amode and Corvo, jaw working. He has a clear line of sight now, crouched amongst the aging wine and whiskey. Next to Amode, a dangerous container of whale oil is rigged, the wiring leading out of the small room.

“It's just incredible, really, how many years you haunted my dreams. I only knew peace while you were in Tyvia. The monster Corvo Attano, finally shipped off to a fitting doom.”

Amode’s voice floats over to Daud and he frowns, studying her. She's not a very intimidating figure: short and pear-shaped, she has the looks of someone who has done maid work most of her life. The expression on her face, however, is venomous-- she paces around Corvo, who sits at the center of the room.

“I’m Serkonan. The cold really isn't my thing.”

“No, but apparently _breaking out of prison_ is _._ I'm the one who planted that idea in Sokolov’s head, you know. I wish it hadn't come to it, but he really is so much easier to sway in bed.”

Daud can hear the grimace in Corvo's response.

“You wanted me gone _that badly?”_

At this, Amode stiffens, her large eyes wet and angry. Out of the corner of his mind, Daud feels the Knife tug at him, insistent. His eyes flick to the adjacent tunnel before continuing to watch the current conversation.

“Wanted you gone? I wanted you _dead!_ You murdered a man in cold blood right above the throne. _You killed every single guard_ _in the Tower that night._ There was a _bloodbath_ in your wake. It was… it was…”

Her voice stammers off, her eyes far away, as if the very thought of that night still triggers unpleasant memories in her. Her voice trembles along with her hands.

“I'm sorry you had to see that,” Corvo quietly offers. Despite the genuine sound of his reply, it only infuriates the woman more.

“You're _sorry--?!”_ Her voice quivers. Around her, the Overseers murmur their agreement. “You're _sorry_ you made choices that affected everyone around you, even the ones you didn't care about? When did you plan on atoning for those sins? When did you plan on making up to all the people you hurt? For the brother I lost? _He was just doing his job, Lord Corvo!”_

Daud shifts in his seat, uncomfortable. He doesn't want to hear this about Corvo, not when he has no way to defend himself. This woman-- clearly, Corvo made it personal with her and had no idea until now.

Corvo's tone is dark as he replies.

“He raped a woman when the Regent took power,” he recites back, as if he heard it from someone else, somewhere else. “He found her crying over Jessamine’s death and wrestled her to the floor, laughing as he forced himself on her. He wanted--”

Daud throws the Void out, pulling _hard_ on Corvo's arm. The shock of it is enough to stop Corvo from continuing and Daud can see his breath hitch, his head jerk.

Amode doesn't notice. She's too busy being lost in the horrors of eight years ago.

The slap comes hard across Corvo's face. It's loud and impactful, and isn't the only one. Amode hits him, over and over again. Corvo, for all his backtalk, takes the punishment in silence.

“How dare you--” _SLAP “_ \--make my brother--” _SLAP_ “--the monster here--” _SLAP “--when I watched you slaughter him from behind that murderous mask!”_

Daud's jaw works, but he can do nothing--only watch as this woman falls apart in the presence of her biggest, most terrible fear. The Overseers in the room shift, unsure if they should stop the beating or let it continue.

Like a live wire the Knife calls to Daud again, but he clenches his fist, ignoring it.

“Ma’am--” one of the men finally starts, “Perhaps that's enough--”

The pistol whips out from the holster on her back hip and she points it, eyes wild, at the one who had spoken up. The gun shakes in her fingers, and he lifts his own hands, calling for peace.

“I’ll say when it's enough! He deserves this. I want him to _suffer.”_

Daud watches as she walks over to the corner of the room, flicking on the music box. Immediately Daud feels the pressure hit him like a vice and he can see Corvo shrink under the barrage, the wind knocked out of him. In his mind, Daud can hear the Knife shriek, the sound distorted and blurred and _rough_ and it grates him even more than the music itself.

“I watched you summon packs of rats, setting them upon the guards, eating them alive while I was just meters away. I watched people possessed killing their friends and loved ones. I watched three men lose their heads, all in the same moment. And yet you killed my brother over a _rape?”_ Her hands shake on the device before she flips it off. “He could have spent time in Coldridge. He could have been forced into manual labor. _Anything_ , when properly convicted. But no-- the demon of Dunwall decided it was too great a crime.”

Corvo coughs and shakes. Still he manages a chuckle.

“You think a rapist doesn't deserve to die for fucking someone beyond their will?”

“No more so than a murderer!” she shouts, snarling in her anger.

“A crime is a crime is a crime. Perhaps we both deserve to die.”

“Oh, I know you do.” She breathes out heavily, voice barely staying even as she tries to hold herself together. “I have been planning your death for a long time, Corvo Attano. You being here just speeds up the process.”

She stands tall, eyes glistening with the fire of hatred and disgust.

“I don't even care what the Regenters do to Morley. I don't care what happens to your precious Empress. I’ll just sleep happy, knowing your head is on a spike.”

Daud watches from the side, eyes wide and brow furrowed. Truly, this woman is mad, and madness is a dangerous adversary. He experimentally calls for the Void, hoping to pull at Corvo again when--

Footsteps.

He shrinks down amongst the barrels, breath hitching. Through the vision of the Void, he sees the warm body of a guard come down through the tunnels and into the room. He squints, trying to focus over the growing tinnitus the Knife is throttling him with.

“Ma’am, there's been a bit of an...incident upstairs.”

Her head jerks over.

“What is it?”

“The guards, the Overseers, the phonographs... they've all been decommissioned.”

_“What?”_

Daud swallows hard. In the chair, Corvo shifts, trying to clench his fist, pulling for the Void-- or perhaps for the Knife.

“Also the prisoner we captured earlier-- he's gone. The one connected to the Rodagh family.”

“Of _course_ the heretic escaped. Did you at least find and capture the elder heir? Wyman?”

“We did-- we found the noble out by the front. They had more of those guards, the ones working with that Flint. We dispatched them as soon as we were able to.”

Amode storms over to Corvo and he squirms under her angry gaze.

“Grab _him_. Bring Wyman. We need to get to the throne room immediately before the royal family escapes. It's time to push this plan into action.”

Corvo tries to protest, but Amode immediately flicks on the music, cutting his connection to the Void. He puts up a strong fight regardless as the Overseers grab him-- but it's two against one, and Corvo is overpowered all too quickly. A swift punch to the gut is enough to subdue him. As soon as he's down, Amode pushes them out of the tunnel and back upstairs.

“Look for the escapee!” She yells as they slowly head back up through the tunnels.

Daud is left behind the barrels, unseen in the darkness, heart thudding painfully in his chest.

 _Wyman. They have Wyman. Void be damned, they have_ Wyman.

It's all he can think as he crawls out of his hiding spot, swiftly turning the music off. He feels the Void rush back into him as his breathing picks up. His vision blurs as he calls to the Void and transverses down the tunnel-- not after Amode, but thr opposite direction, to the side room. Within it, amongst the rows of aging bottles, he sees Corvo's gear, as well Thomas’ coat.

And the Knife, sitting and singing amongst it all.

“They have Wyman,” Daud says aloud, which makes the fact hurt all the more.

The Knife thrums its assent, mirroring his disgust.

He doesn't care about it, tries not to look at it as he gathers the gear and stores it under his own coat. He tries not to hate himself as he grasps the hilt, clinging tightly to the weapon like a lifeline.

The effect is intense and immediate. The energy of the Void travels up his arm, filling him as his Mark burns and sears and brings tears to his eyes. It's worse, _so much worse_ than when he grabbed the Knife in his room, had tried to be rid of it. This is pure Void he feels now, unadulterated.

_Powerful. Invincible._

He channels those feelings now and the Knife amplifies it all, surging him forward. He pulls his burning hand up, grasps at time, and rushes through the tunnels after Amode, the wind roaring in his ears as he goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm screaming because i've been sitting on a few of these chapters now and just haven't posted them yet. I'm still writing this story, I swear. At this point I kinda wanna make sure I finish it just for myself, because there's only a handful of chapters left. For those have patiently waited, thank you so much, your reading of this story means a lot to me. ;w;


	16. Chaos Begets Chaos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end is in sight for this one. Smooch smooch thank you for reading so far~ <3

It's always easier for Corvo to go it alone.

When Corvo Attano works alone, it's  _ simple. _ He has only himself to worry about. It's his skin on the line, his mistakes to own, his infiltration and his interrogation. He's accountable for everything and everyone because he's the only one who should be. He can own his decisions fully because he is the one who it affects, and  _ only _ him. 

It's  _ safer _ to go it alone. If he’s injured on a mission? Not a huge loss; he'll handle it when he gets back. Until then he's sure to have found an elixir or two to help stave off infection. He knows how to escape sticky situations, has done so many times before. Spirits, he broke out of inescapable prison... _ twice. _

He knows how to slip away, how to work the system, get past locks, find an alternative route…

_ Alone. _

But when he has to work with another person, all control variables fail him. How can he prevent someone  _ else _ from getting hurt, from getting lost, from getting captured or tortured or worse? It would be his fault if something were to occur under his paranoid, watchful eye. If he falters, if he worries, or if he -- Void be damned _ \-- hesitates, _ how does he know his actions won't cause his subordinate harm? Even with his Mark, he can't be everywhere at once-- though, Void willing, he certainly does  _ try.  _

No. It's simpler, it's safer, it's easier to go it by himself. He can handle it; he knows how to lessen collateral, take out targets, survey an area,  _ alone. _

If Corvo had remembered this, then maybe he never would have agreed to drag Daud and his men into this. He should have just run off instead, letting them lay low with Wyman until this was all sorted out. But he didn't, and now Wyman is involved. And  _ spirits, _ if Wyman dies because of his stupidity, his hubris, his inability to keep a promise...

Well, it would be just as bad as  _ last time, _ wouldn't it.

He stops that thought as immediately as it starts. Instead, Corvo thinks of all the ways he can try and break free, tries to imagine all possibilities. He can take any path easily -- but the questions remain.

How might his actions affect Wyman? What are the Regenters and Amode willing to do to Wyman now that they had them? And what if Daud is already formulating a plan of attack somewhere just outside of his peripheral? 

Because he knows-- the fact alone filling his stomach with the heat of anger --that Daud is here, that he's running around and disarming the Overseers, weakening the enemy forces from behind the scenes. He knows this and he hates it with every fiber of his being.

Because nobody -- not even  _ Daud _ \-- should have to risk their lives for him.

As soon as he had felt that ethereal jerk to his elbow, Corvo knew he was no longer alone inside the Wynnedown Castle. He knew Daud had been there,  _ somewhere, _ in those tunnels, out of sight and trying to grab his attention. Corvo had ignored him then, trying to play it of off as boredom, even as Amode screeched and scratched and tried to threaten him. Sure, he had been weakened, tired, and bound, but he would have found a way out  _ eventually,  _ with or without Daud's help.

It wasn't until Amode’s men uttered Wyman’s name that the cold drip of fear pooled into Corvo's stomach, spreading into his limbs, entangling his brain, causing him to question every thought, every impulsive gut reaction. Now, he doesn't know how to get Wyman out without bringing harm to them. He doesn't know Daud's game plan-- or if he could get himself, Daud or Wyman out before the place decides to go up in smoke.

So Corvo allows Amode's guards to drag him, scruffed like a wolfhound pup, up to the huge doors of the throne room, trying to quell the trepidation for what he might find on the other side.

The last time he held this much fear in his gut, he was at the top of a lighthouse, watching Havelock -- a man who had once been his ally -- dangle his daughter and future Empress over the highest ledge. His breath had caught, his blood had run cold, and for one hot, suspended second, he didn't know if he was going to be fast enough to catch her before she fell.

He still has nightmares where he doesn't make it in time, that Emily dropped onto the rocks below, that his life and will shattered along with her small body. Havelock would be there laughing in his ear, whispering that haunting phrase:  _ “you can't save her.” _

But that is not his waking reality. Instead, his reality is Emily a whole island away-- while he is stuck inside this large stone castle, in front of these huge carved mahogany doors, with Overseers carrying him and Amode's sharp eyes watching it all with a barely controlled madness.

He doesn't have the Knife. Corvo knows it's nearby, in the castle, but it bothers him that he has no idea  _ where. _ It doesn't call to him; his Mark itches and burns and sends prickles all the way up to his elbow, searching for the missing Void connection. It's a disorienting feeling, so much so that he barely catches Amode's next words, directed squarely at him.

“You know, Corvo,” Amode speaks to him before they enter the large room. “This is going to be a day that goes down in history. A day the Regenters's hope will bring about a new age for the Empire, where the people rule themselves instead of having weak figureheads making decisions for them.”   


She shrugs, acting casual. “We had planned for this to happen on Fugue, originally. There's not enough Fugue celebration in Morley, you know? So what better way to enjoy being outside of time than threatening to drop a whole castle into the ocean?”

She smiles. It doesn't reach her hazel eyes. 

“I originally supported this plan because it meant I could finally be rid of you, Corvo. And because you're here with us today, the Regenters can overthrow the capitol that much sooner, without you there to stop it.”

“C'mon Amode,” he drags out, his mind still elsewhere, not fully present. “I'm a Serkonan cockroach. You really think this will kill me?” 

Her eyes harden over.

“If it doesn't, then I'll personally make _sure_ that it does. Your head will make a pretty present for the Empress, don't you think?” 

She pushes against the heavy doors and they swing open, the old wood groaning in protest under the force. They walk into the large throne room-- Amode in front, with him and the Overseers following behind. Corvo can't help but notice that that long hall is mostly empty; the court is nowhere to be found, and several decorations are in disarray. Their footsteps echo against the spacious marble and stone. 

He looks around, spotting Regenters waiting in dark corners, hands on their weapons as they glower at him. He sees the guards mingling, waiting for a signal, or perhaps the next big move. And finally, up near the throne, surrounded by a gaggle of Regenter supporters--

“Corvo!” 

Corvo jerks his head over to see Wyman, struggling hard against the guards holding them back. They fight and pull valiantly, but Corvo can see the fear in their shining, green eyes. His blood runs cold at the sight of them in such a helpless position.

It's a different lighthouse. A different ledge. And he's swiftly, worryingly,  _ running out of time. _

“Where are they?” Amode's sharp voice cuts through his thoughts and he growls at her. She ignores him and strides over to where the guards are holding Wyman against their will. “The king and queen--they are supposed to be here!”

“The Borus weren't present by the time we got here, Miss.” 

“They were already gone? How is that possible? Did you see any intruders come in? See anyone leave?” 

“No, ma'am.” 

“Impossible--  _ unless--” _

Suddenly she leans over, yanking Wyman up by the lapel of their jacket. Wyman shows no fear as they glare back, meeting Amode's angry eyes. 

“That man-- he was with you, he wore your colors. I know he's a heretic; he fell to my Overseer’s music, just like Corvo. Where is he? Where did he go?”

“I have no idea what you mean and I have nothing to offer you, you vile woman,” Wyman snarls back, jerking out of her grasp and standing upright. A good bit taller than Amode, Wyman stares them down in disdain. 

Amode's eyes narrow, suspicion lacing her words.

“You  _ will _ tell me where he is, because he stole the king and queen from this throne room. Only a heretic could get past the guards, and he is a user of black magic, whether you care to believe it or not.”

“Nothing you threaten me with will make me tell you where he is, and nothing you say will make me believe you.” 

“Oh, we will see about that,” she says, raising a hand to strike at Wyman's face.   


It never makes it to her intended target.

Amode gasps in surprise as, out of a swirl of smoke and ash,  _ Daud _ appears, grabbing her wrist and squeezing tight. She shrieks, her hand crumpling under the vice-like pressure.

Her eyes widen in shock as she registers the familiar features of Daud's face. 

_ “ _ You-- _ You're _ here? But you’re--” she tries to jerk away from his unrelenting grip but only succeeds at stumbling over her own feet. 

Daud pushes her back from Wyman, eyes dark with something much more dangerous than the intent to kill. 

“Flint,” Wyman gasps. The guards holding Wyman flinch from Daud, their grips tight, weapons ready. “Flint thank the Void you're here--” 

“Rinaldo and Misha,” he growls out, turning from Amode's face to look to his ward. “Where are they? Are they safe?” 

“They'll-- they'll live. The music was too much but as soon as they went down the guards grabbed me and left them.” 

“Are you hurt? Did they touch you?” 

“No, I'm--”

“Oh, this is  _ rich.” _

Corvo watches as Amode scrambles away from Daud, staggering back toward the relative safety of her guards. She grins, laughter bubbling up as she looks between Daud and Wyman. In his ear, Corvo hears a telltale ring and feels his head drawn down to Daud's hip.

The Knife hangs there, thrumming with energy, all of which is being siphoned into the furious figure of Daud.

Corvo struggles against the Overseers again, the room erupting into murmurs following Daud's arrival. Wyman lets the confusion flash across their face only for a moment-- but Amode still catches their expression, her own smile broadening.

“You never told them, did you?”

It's Daud's turn to stiffen, his eyes clouding with hatred, the storm building behind them.

“You'd be wise to shut your mouth, Amode.”

“Oh, but why would I want to do that, when the noble you guard doesn't even know who you  _ are.” _

Daud takes a step toward her but is stopped by a loud scoff behind him. Everyone turns to look at Wyman, who is staring Amode down incredulously. 

“Excuse  _ you? _ Who are you to say who I do and do not know? You do not speak for me  _ or _ my people. Flint has been my bodyguard for almost five years and--”

“Spirits-- _ that _ long?” Amode stares at Daud, eyes sparkling with glee from this new development. “The Tower just figured you were dead; we all assumed Corvo killed you for what you did to the Empress!” 

Corvo winces. His blood boils and his fist clenches and he moves to blink and grab at Amode but it's Wyman's voice that cuts through to him, rooting him in place.

“The Empress?” Wyman’s eyes drift over to Corvo, hard with skepticism. Corvo swallows, stiffening. “Corvo, what--?”

_ Spirits. _

“Listen, Wyman, don't worry about it,” Corvo's voice rushes out. It stirs something in Daud and Corvo can see him turn, his gaze holding something other than that poisonous contempt. “It happened long ago, and I--” 

He pauses, a lump forming in his throat as he locks eyes with Daud.

“I don't hold him accountable for what happened anymore.”

“You don't hold him accountable for killing the  _ Empress?” _ Amode laughs in disbelief, and Corvo has to fight off a new wave of hot anger that threatens to drown him. 

“No--I killed your precious  _ Lord Regent _ for  _ that _ instead,” he growls, and he can feel the ripple through the room, the mounting hostility as he utters those words. “He pissed himself crying before I tore his heart from his chest.” 

“So, you freely admit to the horrible crimes you committed that night--”

“--Well, maybe if Burrows had never brought the rat plague, had never  _ hired the hit on Jessamine in the first place--” _

“--And yet you  _ continue _ to place the blame of your actions on others!” she shouts out, voice carrying over his in the large room. “As if only those actions before yours have negative consequences on others!”

She nods at the Overseers and they immediately turn to Corvo, music boxes ready. She takes a step forward, hand going to her hip holster.

Daud lunges for her, grabbing at her arm before she can take another step. The Knife is immediately there in his hand, resting on her throat. The Overseers stop and turn to Daud now, weapons ready. Daud curls his lip and they stand there, staring each other down in a dangerous stalemate. 

“Flint! Flint,  _ stop!”  _

“You threaten anything or anyone else and she goes first and the rest of you follow,” he growls out, ignoring Wyman's plea. Amode chuckles against the twin blades. 

“Oh, they  _ named _ you, that's so cute--” 

“I renounced killing all those years ago, but don't think I won't bleed you here like a stuck Serkonan pig,” Daud barks out, his Mark burning so strong Corvo can see it through his glove. The Overseers notice it too; they shout, moving to attack-- but Daud and Amode are gone.

The next moment sees the Overseers’ boxes destroyed, the guards unarmed, before Daud is back at the throne, Amode still tight in his smoking grasp. 

She screams, her breath catching up with her as she realizes just what happened. 

“Heretic! Demon! Son of a witch!  _ Outsider's bastard!”  _

“Yeah, well why don't you just say it then?” Daud snarls dangerously. His eyes flick from to Amode to the guards to the Overseers, who all step back from the power of his rage. 

“Say it, _I_ _dare you,_ say the name that still haunts the streets of Dunwall!” 

_ “Daud!” _

The Knife of Dunwall stills. He turns. 

They all look to Wyman, the one who shouted that single, lonely word. They're all silent, a million questions held in Wyman’s stricken face.

A gunshot breaks the spell, echoing through the empty hall.

Nobody breathes. Corvo looks to Amode. She is shaking, eyes wide with terror, knuckles white from gripping the smoking pistol pointing straight into Daud's stomach. 

Daud grunts. 

The Knife falls.

Chaos erupts. 

Time stops.

Corvo staggers away from the Overseers and their broken boxes as he pulls his steaming hand down, panting at the effort of holding time in place. Around him are frozen faces and bodies-- the Overseers lunging, Amode falling away from Daud, Wyman shouting. Amongst it all, the Knife rings loud, the sound of it hot in Corvo's ears as he grasps it, pulling it out of time. 

A gloved hand grabs his arm, and Corvo starts, his breath catching. He turns to see Daud's pale face; despite the red pooling over his stomach and the pain in his features, he still manages to fight the ticking of the clock.

“Daud--” 

“Get Wyman out of here,” he rasps out, voice rough and graveled. “There’s a carriage by the inner gate. Take the Knife and go.”

“What--” Corvo looks over the small crowd, at the faces of rage all pointed at where they are standing. “They'll kill you and then just follow me. You have to get out of here and--” 

_ “Corvo,”  _ he snarls, teeth bared. “I know where they're holding the synthetic oil, I already rewired the mechanism. But they don't know--” he winces as he tries to breathe. “I can still stop this whole shitshow before it even starts.”

“So what, you're just supposed to play hero and  _ die _ here?”

“Better me than you,” Daud says, voice quieter, more defeated.  _ Resigned, _ Corvo realizes. “Thomas is a good kid, he’ll watch Wyman for me.”

“Damnit, Daud--” 

Time wavers around them threateningly. The Knife thrums loudly in Corvo's ear. Daud’s features harden as he pushes against Corvo.

_ “GO!” _

The chaos resumes around them but Corvo is already gone, Wyman in tow. He can hear the angry swell rise behind him as he blinks rapidly away, gaining distance as his hand smokes and the Knife protests. He feels Wyman start against his shoulder, gasping out as the air re-enters their lungs. 

“Flint-- _ Daud--!” _

“Stay quiet and keep your head down,” Corvo mutters out against Wyman's ear. They lose their breath once more as Corvo surges forward and out a window, falling a ways before blinking again, gaining distance and speed with each pull of the Void.

“Corvo-- wait,  _ please, _ Corvo, we have to go back--” 

“We can't, there's nothing we can do.” The words sound choked to his ears and he tells himself it's from the strain of pushing too hard, too fast. On his shoulder Wyman fights him more desperately but Corvo doesn't stop, doesn't turn around, not until they get to the gate. Corvo can see Thomas standing by the carriage, waiting. Thomas’s eye meets Corvo's for only a moment, more said in that glance than words could ever manage.

As soon as they are on the ground, Wyman is pushing away only to immediately round back to punch Corvo square in the jaw. 

“YOU IDIOT!”

Corvo reels more from the emotion than the force of impact. Thomas stands there, stunned, before he moves to grab Wyman’s arm, stopping another blow. 

“What happened?” Thomas demands, and for a moment his voice holds the same authoritative power as Daud's does.  _ Did. _

“He was shot. Point blank. It gave us enough distraction to leave.”

The color drains from Thomas’s face.

“What? He didn't stop time? He didn’t--?” His voice is laced with a desperate disbelief that reminds Corvo all too much of that day in the gazebo, of how he felt when--

“You’re  _ all _ idiots!” 

Wyman yanks themselves out of Thomas’ grasp, face red and angry and threatening tears. They rush to Corvo, pushing hard against his chest.

_ “Go back!”  _

“Wyman, we need to leave, we have to get out of here before--”

“GO BACK,” Wyman repeats, voice remaining even despite the pure, raw emotion behind it. “He was wearing my vest so I  _ know _ that was a survivable shot and magic or not I refuse to watch the best bodyguard in the Isles needlessly throw his life away when  _ I did my all specifically to keep him alive!”  _

Corvo gapes at Wyman. 

“Don't tell me he took the shot because--”

“Because he's a Void-damned, hard-headed asshole?” Thomas interjects, his pale face going steely. “Spirits, I'm coming with you, I'm not letting him--”

“No.” 

The resolve behind Corvo's statement stops Thomas in his tracks. He eyes Corvo warily, filled with an emotion that goes far deeper than simple fear.

“He wants you here with Wyman just in case anything happens. He trusts you to get the job done.” He looks between Thomas and Wyman, face set. The Knife rings in his hand like a tuning fork, filling him with the energy he'll need in the moments to come.

“Don't follow me,” he snarls, dark eyes burning.

He gathers the Void in his hand and desperately holds onto time. Then he's blinking off, so fast he can feel the whiplash when he lands just to take off and jump again. 

He doesn't even know what he's looking for as he re-enters the castle proper. He isn't sure where Daud may have led the Regenters off to, has no idea what he's really planning. All he knows and sees and feels is the all-consuming dread that fills him now.

A different lighthouse. A different ledge. 

The same feeling of fate resting just on the edge of his blade.

As time resumes, he can hear the sound of conflict, of loud shouting, of wounded people-- of Amode's piercing screams.

“Capture him! Do what you must! He's working with Attano, find him, find them both!” 

Corvo presses himself to the wall, sweat running down his neck as he listens, straining his ears against the jagged cries of the Knife in his grip. He closes his eyes, breathes deep, and focuses. When he reopens them, the Void fills his vision and he looks down, following the Overseers.

Downstairs. To the left. Through the tunnels. From there they disappear from his sight but it doesn't matter; the amount of bodies pouring in that direction means there is no other place Daud could be. If he was planning a distraction, then the one he’s creating now is working. 

As the guards and Overseers run further into the underground cliffs, Corvo makes his move, pushing himself from the wall, the Knife flipping in his hand as he makes to head after them. 

He rolls out of his hiding spot and comes face to face with Amode down the hall. 

She pauses. Behind her, two Overseers come to a running halt, shouting as they see Corvo in their way. His eyes lock with hers and he can hear the intake of breath, can see the shock of fear cross her features. 

His hand burns and itches, the skin searing with the Void. He offers her the faintest of smiles.

Her mouth opens and her pistol raises but he is already there before the second has passed, the wind generated from his hand blasting the Overseers back. They yell as they fly bodily through the air, the gust rushing violently past Corvo to slice through them, the Void showing no mercy as they crumple to the floor, their limbs in shambles.

He then turns to Amode, eyes glinting in the light. She tries again to bring the gun up to meet him; he grabs her right hand with his left, the Mark burning bright against her flesh. 

“No--” she gasps out, but he twists her wrist, breaking it with a wet  _ crunch. _ The gun clatters to the floor as she wails, grabbing at her useless hand.  _ “NO!” _

“What did you expect, Amode?” he asks, his low voice holding a hint of sadness. “Did you really think you could succeed here?”

“Th-there’s still time--” she cries out, her eyes welling with tears. “I can still trap you here, stall you until the cliff collapses--” 

She falls to her knees, head down, cradling her arm to her chest. 

“It's over, Amode.”

“I just wanted to rid the world of evil--” she says, voice wet. Her body shakes with pain and the indignation she feels. “--and you,  _ you _ were always the worst of it all.”

“Chaos begets chaos,” he quietly tells her. “Madness cannot be used to fight madness.” 

“Is that what you tell yourself at night?” She spits out. She looks up at him: her face is pale, clammy from nausea the crushed bone is no doubt causing her. “Is that what you think when you're killing people, spreading the plague, living comfortably while making all of our lives that much harder?” 

He feels pity for her. Or something akin to it.

He kneels down and she flinches away, shaking.

“Justice is the only way to fight the world's madness,” he says. “That is what I live by, what I tell myself.” 

“You're a monster,” she chokes out, tears erupting from her terrified eyes.

“And you are a Madness, Amode. One that I unfortunately created.” 

The Knife makes no noise as it slides up through her chest, as smooth as a hot blade through a slab of butter. Corvo watches sadly as her breath catches, her eyes going from shock, to fear, to a gaze far off and into the Void. Her mouth opens, but not a sound comes out. 

“I am truly sorry,” he whispers, voice hoarse, “Miss Dana Amode.” 

\------

The clock ticks. The blood drips. 

Daud tries to ignore both of these facts as he races through the tunnels, feeling like a wolf being chased by a pack of Regenter hounds. The pain of his stomach burns white hot, each breath a little harder than the last. He grimaces as he transverses down the tunnel again, staying ahead of his pursuers and leading them down into his trap.

It's a simple thing, really. Before hitting the throne room, he had searched the tunnels, carefully locating the synthetic whale oil the Regenters had planned to use in a plot to drop half of Wynnedown Castle into the ocean below. It was a tricky task, but he managed it-- rewiring all of the individual tanks, moving them from their original locations, and gathering them all to one large storage room far under the castle. 

Far enough, he hoped, that the castle proper wouldn't be too harmed in the resulting explosion. 

He pauses for just a moment, sucking in a breath only to have it turn to shards of glass in his chest. He cries out and not for the first time, he puts his hand to his shirt, moving the bloodied cloth to look at the state of Wyman's vest.

It isn't good. The vest -- as expected -- caught most of the shrapnel, but the force of impact caused additional damage the protective wear couldn't and  _ wasn't _ meant to prevent. Still, without it, Amode's shot would have blasted his side wide open, and not even the Outsider Itself could have saved him then. 

He clenches his fist and calls for the Void but he can't focus long enough on it. It flees painfully from his hand, leaving pins and needles in its wake. He curses, shaking his head, the sweat falling down as he tries again. It fades with a whispered sigh. Not even the Outsider would stick around to watch him die. 

It's almost sad enough to laugh about, this situation he's gotten himself into. All because he couldn't help but get caught up in Corvo Attano’s entanglements. 

_ Again. _

The voices behind him grow louder. He pulls himself up with a grunt and runs forward as fast as his weakening legs can take him.

It isn't much further now. If he can just make it past this bend, then--

_ There it is.  _

Around 50 large barrels of what look to be whale oil are piled into the stone alcove, pushed against a wall of vintage ale and whiskey. There is probably a good 75 years of spirits there; some of it predating Morley’s joining with the Empire. If Daud was a drinking man, he might find it a shame that such good alcohol would be wasted like this.

But he doesn't give a damn about Morleyan ale. He only cares that it will make his trap all the more flammable.

Near the far end of the room, a large passage leads to a sheer ocean drop. A doorway for ventilation, built ages ago. He watches the water, feeling the ocean breeze against his hot and pained face. At least the storm stayed out to sea this time. 

The Morelyan sun even manages to show itself. Today of all days.

The voices get louder as they near the room. Some of them sound alarmed; perhaps they were realizing the trap, that they were too far down to turn back. Another yell, another gasp. Closer now, the noises bouncing around the catacomb walls. 

Daud takes a cigarette out and lights it, pulling a long drag and letting the smoke out, hard and heavy. He removes the pistol from its holster and checks the ammunition, takes off the safety, and cocks the gun in one fluid, practiced motion. 

The first of the Overseers storm in, loud and angry and demanding his heretic blood. The others aren't far behind, shouting and careening into his volatile little corner. Daud frowns; he could have sworn there were more of them following behind. If he was going to go out, he at least wanted to take as many of these bastards with him as he could. 

Ah, well. No use debating it now. He lifts the gun, pointing it at the oil tanks. 

He watches with immense satisfaction as his assailants look from him, to the gun, to the barrels. Panic registers and ripples through the pack. 

Daud smiles. 

And pulls the trigger. 

The blast of wind registers half a second before the explosion, both equally deafening in his ears. He feels the impact in his chest and limbs, the force of it shattering everything around him. But the heat-- he figured he'd be searing by now, boiling from the inside, a cleansing by fire-- is not as bad as he thought it would be, at least. Instead his head rings and his body breaks and he can't recall a thing except for how he is falling away, the world left in turmoil behind him. 

Daud closes his eyes and loses all sensation as the strong grip of the Void reaches down --  _ finally _ \-- to claim him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life has been so busy. I haven't even been able to write in almost two weeks. Luckily I've had this chapter as a buffer for a while. So please, enjoy this while I work on finishing this fic, getting another chapter out for my werewolf fic, and getting life set and in order. You're all great, and I only have 3-4 chapters left. I'm determined to see this fic through to the end. <3


End file.
